


The Hand that Feeds

by TheManicMagician



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Animal Abuse, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Fontcest, Gaslighting, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Physical Abuse, Sans is the actual worst, bad brother au, some small papby
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-16
Updated: 2018-11-25
Packaged: 2018-12-30 10:28:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 27,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12106746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheManicMagician/pseuds/TheManicMagician
Summary: “Sans, please. I’ll do anything. Whatever you want me to do, just say it and I’ll do it.”Sans considers him.“Anything, huh?”Contains stray dog adoption, lasagna, and bad times for Papyrus.





	1. How much is that doggie in the window?

Papyrus sits at the edge of his bed, holding a DVD case in his hands. The old plastic case is cracked and battered, but the disc contained within escaped any damage. He tested it himself; it plays six episodes of a human science show. Papyrus knows Sans will enjoy it. His brother lights up when he discovers new gadgets at the Dump; he devours new science textbooks when the library gets them in stock. Papyrus just needs to go downstairs, where Sans is no doubt bored of the latest MTT special. Sans will love to watch this, he just knows it.

So why can’t he move?

Instead of joining his brother downstairs, he rubs his fingers nervously along the plastic, exasperating its tears. The pulse of his soul is elevated, and his skull is clammy with sweat.

Fed up with himself, he jumps up, and makes it to the door in three swift strides. But his courage whimpers as he grabs the doorknob. He just has to open the door, but his arms are like lead.

Papyrus lets his skull thunk against the door. Stupid, indecisive Papyrus. Is it any wonder Sans doesn’t like you?

Rallying himself, he manages at last to open the door. Near sick with dreadful anticipation, he steps down the stairs, the DVD case held firmly against his chest.

Sans doesn’t look over at him, not even when one of the stairs creaks. Papyrus stops about a foot from the couch. Sans is splayed out across the cushions, scrolling through his phone with one hand and working through a bag of chips with the other while the television blares. There are several crumpled beer cans scattered on the floor. Papyrus knows from experience that the amount is enough to make Sans tipsy, but nowhere near drunk.

“Um.” Papyrus’ voice is thready. “S-Sans, I found this copy of some, some human s-science show that I thought…” His prepared request dies in his chest as Sans finally looks over at him. His eye lights are cool, flat.

“You “thought” what?”

“I…I thought.” He clutches the DVD tighter. Like a feeble shield. “I thought we could watch it…together?”

Papyrus squirms under Sans’ withering gaze.

“Why would I ever want to watch something with you? It’s not like you’d understand it, anyway.”

“I-I don’t mind. Or maybe, you could explain…”

“You’re an adult. I shouldn’t have to lead you by the goddamn hand all the time.”

“I’m sorry—”

“Can’t cook for shit, too weird to land a job. I’m the one stuck paying  _ all _ the bills, and now you want me to take time out of the few free hours I have to attempt to teach you?”

“N-Nevermind. It was stupid.” Stupid,  _ stupid _ Papyrus.

Sans’ gaze flicks up and down Papyrus’ form.

“And for fuck’s sake, could you be wearing shorter shorts?” Sans sneers.

Embarrassment rises to Papyrus’ face. Skeletons don’t really feel the cold bite of the Snowdin air, so he hadn’t thought twice about purchasing MTT brand hotpants with his saved allowance. 

But Sans is right. He must look ridiculous. Papyrus tugs uselessly at the hem of his shorts, willing them to cover his exposed femurs better.

“You’re right. I’ll change.”

~*~

He needs to make up for his blunder, so after Sans leaves for work the following morning, he heads out to Waterfall. Despite the humid heat, he wears a sweater and jeans. He’s outgrown the pants, so they look more like capris, exposing several inches of his fibula and tibia. Still, it’s much better than what he’d worn yesterday.

Papyrus passes only a few monsters on his trip, the occasional sentry, a few playing children. Most adults are at work.

It’s a little after midday when he reaches the Dump. He heads into the mountains of precariously stacked junk, craning his neck as he looks around. He’s not sure what he’s hoping to find. He just has the vague idea of looking for something that would appeal to his brother’s interests. This time, he won’t try to force Sans to spend time with him; he’ll leave the gift by Sans’ door, with an apologetic note.

It might work, if he could only find something worth giving. Papyrus picks through the garbage. Most of it really is just trash: dolls scribbled over with markers, old appliances, food waste.

Papyrus keeps looking. Surely there must be something worthwhile in this cavern. He doesn’t have enough money to buy monster-made wares in the capital. Maybe he could return the hotpants? He could use the refund money to buy something for Sans. Though they might not accept them back since he took off the tags—

Papyrus yelps as there’s a sudden prick of pain around his ankle. He springs back, looks down. Something small and brownish has latched on to his leg.

“Get off!” He cries. With one quick tug, he’s able to pull his leg free.

The brown thing sways on its feet. It barks.

Papyrus blinks. It’s a…dog?

Not a monster, but a genuine animal. Upon closer inspection, he sees that the dog isn’t brown, but actually white; its pelt is matted with clods of mud and dirt.

With each heave of its chest, Papyrus can see the outline of its ribs, the ridges of its spine. As cool as bones are, they shouldn’t be visible on anyone that’s not a skeleton monster.

“Um, I have something.” Papyrus rummages through his inventory, and brings out the sandwich he’d prepared for his lunch in case his search ran long. The dog’s ears prick up as he crouches down and extends the sandwich towards it. “Here. This should be tastier than my bones.”

The dog is eager, and scarfs down the meal in seconds. Its tail wags slowly, then faster, and it licks the crumbs from Papyrus’ phalanges.

“That’s all I have,” Papyrus apologizes.

There’s no one else around that Papyrus can see, no one calling out for a missing dog. Judging by the canine’s state, its poor health and lack of collar or tags, it has to be a stray.

Papyrus looks down at the small dog, conflicted. Sans won’t be happy if he brings a dog home, but…can he really just leave it?

The dog yips, springing up to slobber on Papyrus’ face. It tickles, and the dog draws out nyehing laughter from him. He pats at the dog’s head before urging it down again.

His smile fades, and he grows resolute. The dog can’t stay out here. It needs food, and a nice bath. Maybe, once it’s cleaned up and has a full belly, Papyrus can bring it to a vet or pet specialty store in the capital, and find the dog a home.

Mind made up, he scoops the dog up into his arms. It lies pliant, and feels far too light. Papyrus picks his way towards the Dump’s exit. The dog doesn’t fuss much in his arms as he makes his way home. It licks at his sweater a few times, but doesn’t seem to have the energy to wriggle free. The dog starts shivering almost as soon as he steps into Snowdin, so Papyrus picks up the pace until he’s inside his house.

He cranks up thermostat, and the barely-used heating system chugs to life. He carries the dog straight to the bathroom. Sans rarely uses the tub, but Papyrus likes feeling clean. He sets the dog down, and it sniffs around the tiles as Papyrus detaches the showerhead and gets it running lukewarm.

Papyrus sets the dog in the tub, and it immediately tries to leap out.

“Stay still!” Papyrus scolds. He squirts a generous dollop of bone body wash—not exactly soap but all he has—and lathers the dog up. When he turns on the showerhead the dog yips unhappily, sloshing bathwater everywhere as its nails scratch the side of the tub in its gambit for freedom. Papyrus grits his teeth. “Infernal canine! I’m trying to help!”

Papyrus summons a small, but sturdy bone attack. He dangles it near the dog, who grabs it eagerly. Content to nibble on the bone attack, the dog stops trying to escape the tub. Papyrus gets to work rinsing out its fur, and takes satisfaction in watching the dirt swirl down the drain. Some mud is too firmly stuck on to wash off; Papyrus retrieves a pair of scissors and snips off the fur connecting the clumps. It takes time, but his effort is rewarded; the dog is clearly white, now.

When Papyrus removes the dog from the bath it wastes no time in shaking out its fur, splattering Papyrus further with water. Papyrus grimaces, but he’ll allow the dog to get away with it this once.

“Would you like to eat something?” The dog understands him on some level, because it excitedly scratches at the bathroom door. Papyrus can’t help but smile at the dog’s antics.

He lets the dog free, and it follows him down the stairs, to the kitchen. He doesn’t have dog food on hand, obviously, so he makes do with leftover lasagna. He heats up the pasta, and once it’s cooked he places down both a bowl of the lasagna, and a bowl of tap water. The dog laps at the water sloppily before diving into the lasagna. Papyrus grimaces as sauce and cheese spatter onto the floor, and onto the dog’s clean coat. Maybe lasagna wasn’t the  _ best _ option.

Papyrus washes the empty leftovers container while the dog eats. He’s fortunate that Snowdin is a town with a large dog population—the general store stocks several kibble brands. Once he cleans up the dog again, he should go grab some.

Papyrus stalls. Wait, no. His plan was to bring the dog to an adoption center. He can’t keep it.

The dog, finished wolfing down its meal, trots over to him. It jumps up, pushing its paws against him insistently, wanting attention. Papyrus bestows many pets upon it, and the dog basks in his affection.

The front door unlocks, and Sans tromps in, tracking in slush with his sneakers. Papyrus jerks up, startled, guilty.

Sans’ gaze is caught by the dog. 

“I want to keep it.” Papyrus blurts.

The dog needs a home. And taking care of the animal, even just for these brief hours, has made him feel so warm and light.

“You won’t have to do anything,” Papyrus continues, when Sans says nothing. “I’ll walk it and feed it and pick up after it. You won’t even know it’s here.”

Sans is silent, and for a long horrible moment Papyrus prepares for the worst.

But Sans shrugs, seemingly indifferent. “Whatever. Just know I’m not payin’ 1G for it. Better find a job.”

And that’s all Sans has to say about it, before he heads up to his room.

Papyrus looks down at the dog— _ his _ dog. Stunned. His brother’s mood can be mercurial—indifferent one moment, angry the next—and Papyrus was fortunate enough to catch him in a more agreeable state.

“I suppose I should fetch those supplies after all.”

The dog yips.

~*~

A bell jingles as Papyrus steps inside the Snowdin General Store. Usagi, the owner, gives him a quick wave.

“Got it rung up already for you, hun.” She pats the bag of dog food she’s set by the register.

“Thank you.”

Papyrus hands over 3G. Since Sans forbid him from using any part of his allowance on the dog, necessity demanded that Papyrus find something else to support his new canine companion. He scraped together the courage to ask around town, and gratefully accepted a series of odd jobs—dusting the shelves of the library, babysitting Usagi’s nieces and nephews, and even taking over the occasional sentry shift. Dogamy and Dogaressa, once sniffing out his new pet, even donated several toys.

“Wait there just a second. Got a few cinnamon bunnies in the back.”

“Oh, that’s okay. I don’t need—”

“Nonsense, hun. It’s my treat.” She reaches across the counter to nudge his arm. “You need it. You’re all bones!”

She laughs at her own joke, and Papyrus cracks a polite smile.

When she disappears into the back of the store, Papyrus hefts the bag of dog food in his arms. She returns shortly with a brown paper bag.

“Have a good day now. And tell your brother I say hello!”

Papyrus’ smile falters for a moment, before returning. “Of course. Thank you, Miss Usagi.”

She waves as he leaves the store.

The dog food is starting to weigh him down already, so takes the shortest path home. He slows as he passes Grillby’s. It’s only midafternoon, but the bartender tends to let the regulars in while he sets up for the evening rush. Sans might be in there. He could drop off the cinnamon bunnies for him. 

But Sans can be a nasty drunk. He’s sent Papyrus running from the bar before, humiliated and hurt.

Papyrus stands before the bar entrance, paralyzed by indecision. 

He’s startled as Doggo brushes past him. He flicks the butt of a dog treat away before opening the bar door. He looks to Papyrus, inclining his head inside.

“N-No, it’s okay.” Papyrus stammers. “I should be getting home.”

Doggo shrugs and enters alone. Papyrus doesn’t want to be caught standing and staring like a weirdo, so he hurries the rest of the way home.

He fumbles to get the keys in his pocket out while juggling the dog food and the cinnamon bunnies. There’s an excited barking at the door. The dog must’ve seen him walk by through the window.

Once he lets himself in, the dog immediately tries to pounce on him, sniffing at the paper bag.

“No no, that’s not for you,” Despite his scolding tone, he’s smiling. “Give me a minute to get your lunch ready, okay?”

The dog zips around the living room as Papyrus puts everything away. The dog’s improvement has been amazing in such a short period of time. With a steady diet, its white coat has become thick and shiny, and a healthy fat pads its body. If Papyrus thought the dog had energy when they met, that was like comparing a candle to the CORE. The dog constantly bolts around the house, always eager to play. Papyrus does his best to wear the dog out before Sans comes home.

Papyrus fills the dog’s bowl with fresh kibble, and the dog trots over, tail wagging furiously. Papyrus kneels down, giving the dog a few scritches on the head. The dog licks his hand before diving back into its meal. 

Papyrus had tried to come up with a name for the dog—Cambria, Snowball, Toby, to name a few—but the dog never responded to any of them, only perking up to iterations of “dog” and “you” and “infernal beast!!!”. And so the dog remains nameless, in a cool, enigmatic way.

“You must keep yourself entertained today, dog. I must get to cleaning!”

Leaving the dog to the rest of its meal, Papyrus rolls up his sleeves and gets to work. He systematically cleans the house room by room. He likes cleaning; he’s done it so many times that he’s become a pro at removing even the toughest of stains. Sans has tolerated the dog so far because Papyrus has made sure there’s nothing to complain about; there’s not a trace of dog hair, no lingering smell.

Papyrus cleans the house from tip to toe, with the exception of Sans’ room. He returns to the living room to check on the dog, to find it has something in its mouth.

“What have you got there?” Papyrus’ soul drops in sudden shock. “That’s Sans’ sock!”

Not a generic, easily replaceable one. This sock has tiny UFOS stitched on to it, a gift from one of his many friends. Sans would notice its absence. Oh no oh no oh no.

Papyrus grabs one end of the sock. The dog’s eyes sparkle, and it starts tugging back.

“No, this is not playtime! You can’t touch Sans’ things. Bad dog!”

The dog’s ears flatten, and it releases the sock. Papyrus inspects it, and slumps with relief. There’s a little dog drool, but it doesn’t look like the canine’s teeth ripped holes into it.

The dog whimpers, looking at him with big, sad eyes. Papyrus can’t leave his pet looking miserable, so he gives it a few pets to perk it up.

“I’m sorry. But you  _ know _ touching Sans’ things is bad.”

Papyrus goes upstairs to return the sock, and to make sure the dog didn’t disturb anything else in Sans’ room.

When he opens the door, he is assaulted by all manner of foul stenches. Sans’ room stinks of sweat, sour beer, and old hamburgers. The floor is littered with papers, wrappers, and stray articles of clothing. There’s a mountain of beer cans in one corner of the room.

Papyrus knows he should just put the sock in with the rest of the mess, and leave. But his need for cleanliness roils at the state of Sans’ room. And besides—maybe this is why Sans prefers to spend most of his time at Grillby’s. Papyrus certainly wouldn’t want to live in such squalor.

And so, Papyrus gets to work. He ends up extracting five—five!!!—full bags of trash, and two of recycling. Papyrus isn’t sure which notes are important and which aren’t, so he collects them all and places them in a neat stack on Sans’ desk.

Now that the floor is walkable, he turns his attention to the bed. All of Sans’ sheets, greasy, sweat-stained, are wadded up at one end of the bed. He retrieves a hamper and picks up the disgusting ball.

Once he’s set the sheets of filth in the hamper, he notices that something had been shoved under them.

He picks them up. They’re…photographs?

There’s two photos from when they were babybones—arm in arm, smiling, before they’d grown apart—but the others are more recent. A photo of him sleeping on the couch, the dog on his chest, his shirt riding up. Another of him from behind, the day he wore his new hotpants. Another of him in his bed, mouth parted in sleep. This picture has a splatter of blue residue on it, with a musky odor.

A chill shoots down his spine, and Papyrus lets the photos drop, scattering onto the mattress. 

~*~

Sans stumbles home at three in the morning. Papyrus is waiting for him, perched on the couch next to his sleeping dog. The photographs are in a ziplocked bag on his lap.

Sans ignores him, weaving his way towards the stairs.

Papyrus rises. “Brother, we need to talk.”

Sans snorts, one hand on the bannister.

Papyrus holds up the bag as he approaches. “I found these in your room.”

There’s a slow, dawning realization. Sans’ face goes through a cornucopia of emotion—surprise, guilt, fear—before settling on rage.

“Ya were in my room?” Sans growls.

Papyrus tries to stay on point, shaking the bag for emphasis. “These—these pictures—”

“How many times have I told you to not go in my fuckin’ room!” Sans yells. “Are you too thick to understand basic instructions?”

The dog, alerted by Sans’ volume, runs up to them and starts barking.

“You shut that damn dog up!”

“Why are you taking pictures of me? This is—this is  _ wrong _ , brother, you need help—”

Sans lunges forward and grabs Papyrus’ wrist, hard enough to bruise. The dog keeps barking.

Sans’ eyes are empty pits. “Give them to me.”

“N-No. Sans, please. I just want to help you—!”

“Give them to me!” Sans snarls. His rough grip draws a gasp of pain from Papyrus.

Sans cries out, and stumbles back as the dog bites his leg, jaws closing hard enough to draw marrow.

“Get off, you stupid—” Sans shakes his leg, but the dog holds firm, a fierce growl in its chest.

“Don’t hurt him!”

“The fuck off me!” Sans kicks the dog. Once, twice—the dog yelps sharply as it lets go of his leg, and rolls to a stop on the carpet.

“Motherfucker,” Sans hisses, holding his bleeding ankle.

Papyrus crouches down, reaching for him. “Oh god, I’m so sorry. Let me heal it, please.”

Sans backhands him. His head rings, and his hands drop to his sides. His brother has never hit him before. 

Sans limps over and snatches up the bag of photos where it fell, and stuffs it in his inventory. He jabs a finger at Papyrus.

“You breathe a word of this to anyone and you’re dust. Got it?”

There’s a sharp crack of magic and Sans is gone; moments later Papyrus hears his brother’s door lock click.

A low whimper draws Papyrus back to himself. The dog has picked itself up, and shuffled over to him, but it holds one front paw tucked to its chest.

“I’m sorry.” Papyrus’ voice cracks. He bows his head. He runs his hands through the dog’s mussed fur. “I’m so sorry.”

The dog whines, and licks at Papyrus’ tears.

~*~

The dog lays down later that night, and is in too much pain to get up again. The next morning Papyrus holds its water bowl to its mouth so it can drink, and feeds it kibble by hand.

Papyrus doesn’t know what to do. The dog hasn’t moved its paw, and its ribs don’t feel…right. This is beyond him—the dog needs to go to a vet. The dog needs x-rays, a cast, maybe even surgery and medications.

Having a pet is considered a luxury Underground, because of how few in number the animals are. The cost of the procedures would be an unfathomable amount to Papyrus. He has about 50G to his name. To save his dog will cost hundreds, maybe more.

After making the dog comfortable in a nest of blankets on his bed (and making sure to shut the door to keep the dog put) Papyrus heads downstairs. He finds Sans sipping water and swallowing pills for his hangover.

“Sans.” Papyrus starts, quietly. “I need your help. The dog is sick.”

“Told you before I wasn’t paying nothing for it.”

If Sans was indifferent to the dog before, he hates it now.

But that doesn’t matter. Papyrus can’t let his dog, his one true friend, die. Not when he can still do something to prevent it.

“Sans, please. I’ll do anything. Whatever you want me to do, just say it and I’ll do it.”

Sans considers him.

“Anything, huh?”

Papyrus nods fervently.

“Wait for me in my bedroom. And put on those shorts of yours.”

~*~

The springs creak as Papyrus sits on the edge of the mattress. His knees are closed, drawn tight to his chest. He rubs at his bare legs, feeling cold.

Sans enters, and locks the door. He draws the shades for his window, and flicks on the light. The single bulb is dim and flickering.

Sans kicks errant laundry out of the way, so he can stand before Papyrus unobstructed.

“On your knees.” Sans murmurs.

Papyrus obediently adjusts, kneeling on the hardwood, the tips of his toes brushing the edge of the mattress. 

Sans runs a hand down his cheek, the same one he struck the night before. His touch is surprisingly tender. Papyrus shivers.

“Open your mouth.”

Sans slips his thumb against the floor of Papyrus’ mouth, and his tongue forms, wet and glistening. Sans takes his time exploring. He massages Papyrus’ tongue, pinches it between his thumb and forefinger. He swipes Papyrus’ saliva over his teeth.

“I think you know what’s next.” Sans says, withdrawing his spit-slick hand.

Papyrus is eye level with Sans’ shorts. Even through the black fabric he can see a faint glow.

Papyrus swallows. He’s not naïve. He knew what he’d been offering when he begged for Sans’ help, but…

He’s only touched himself maybe twice. He’s never so much as held hands with another monster.

“What’s the matter? Pussying out?” Sans shrugs. “I mean, you can leave, if you want.”

But he needs to stay if he wants that money.

Papyrus reaches for the waistband of Sans’ shorts. He tugs them downwards, and they drop around his ankles. Papyrus balks. Sans’ cock is—it’s  _ huge _ . Thick. A bead of electric blue precum already at the tip.

Sans steps out of his shorts, and kicks them away. His cock bobs with the motion.

“What’re you waiting for? Stroke it.” 

Papyrus can barely fit his hand around it. He jerks up and down in an uneven rhythm, feeling it grow firmer still in his hand.

“Now suck it,” Sans says, a bit breathless.

“It w-won’t fit.” Papyrus croaks.

“It will.” Sans grabs his cock and presses the head to Papyrus’ teeth. The odor is thick, cloying. Papyrus wants nothing more than to turn his face away. But instead he opens his mouth in invitation.

“Don’t even think about biting,” Sans warns, before shoving in.

Papyrus gags. It’s too much, too fast. He can’t think, can’t breathe past Sans’ stale, bitter musk.

He pulls off, coughing, gasping.

“Hey now.” Sans rubs his cock right under Papyrus’ eye socket, precum mixing with the tears on Papyrus’ face. “We have a deal, don’t we? Now suck.”

Papyrus takes a labored, rattling breath. He wraps both hands around the base of Sans’ dick, and lowers his mouth back down.

“Use your tongue.”

Papyrus licks around Sans’ shaft. At first it’s revolting, but he acclimates quickly to Sans’ taste.

“That’s it, fuck, that’s it,” Sans grunts, thrusting up as Papyrus sucks and bobs. “Such a good cocksucker, baby bro. ‘s like you were meant for it.” Sans laughs. “No wonder you weren’t ever good at anything! You just— _ uhn _ —hadn’t found your true calling yet!”

That’s not true, Papyrus wants to protest. He can only faintly gargle around the mouthful of cock.

“Shh shh shh,” Sans pats his face. “I know you’re loving it. Feels nice to be useful for once, doesn’t it?”

Sans’ cock is stiff, twitching. He has to be close. Sans’ thumbs hook in the corners of Papyrus’ eyes. It stings—his sockets water instinctively—but Sans’ grip only tightens as he pounds into Papyrus’ mouth.

Sans growls like an animal as cum spurts down Papyrus’ throat. Papyrus swallows what he can, but starts to choke.

Sans slips out of his mouth and jerks out the rest of his cum with firm strokes, painting ropes of ectoplasm across Papyrus’ face.

Papyrus hunches over, trying not to heave. Cum drips down his chin.

Sans’ magic flares, and Papyrus flinches as his soul feels like it’s being doused with ice. Sans pushes him down, his back against the mattress.

“B-Brother?”

“Ya didn’t think we were done, did you? Have you even looked at yerself?”

Papyrus labors against the blue attack to look up as Sans lifts his hips, putting his legs around his shoulders. Sans buries his face against Papyrus’ crotch.

“S-Stop!”

“Yer cunt smells awful sweet.” Sans licks along the zipper of his shorts. 

Papyrus’ head is swimming. He doesn’t want this. But he needs to do this, and oh, it  _ does _ feel good. He needs to do this—he needs it.

Sans works off his hotpants. The panties beneath, light blue with lace hems, are damp, glued to the curves of his arousal.

Sans rubs his fingers against the thin fabric, making Papyrus moan.

“You wore these just for me?”

Papyrus shakes his head. He’d changed his underwear when he’d gotten redressed, but it wasn’t intentional. He didn’t mean anything. He wants this to stop.

Sans pulls down his panties. “You’re soaked. Sopping wet from sucking your brother’s cock. You disgusting freak.”

Sans drops Papyrus’ legs, and crawls on top of him. He forces Papyrus’ legs wide apart and thrusts two fingers deep inside.

Papyrus screams.

Sans pumps his fingers in and out. Papyrus’ pelvis twitches, unable to keep up with the stimulation.

Pressure eases off his chest as Sans lets the blue attack ebb. He can move, but only drags his fingers against the mattress.

“Say you like it.” Sans grunts. “Say you love feeling your big brother stir up your cunt!”

“I—” His chest heaves, his eye lights rolling to the back of his sockets. He shrieks with mingled pain and ecstasy as Sans drives a third finger inside him. “S-Something is buh, building—”

“You wish it was my cock inside you right now, don’t you?”

“Yes!” Papyrus sobs.

“Say it!”

“I want big brother’s cock!” Papyrus howls, hips snapping up as he squeezes around his brother’s fingers. His fluids squirt out in the narrow gaps between Sans’ fingers.

Sans removes his fingers, leaving Papyrus a panting, trembling wreck.

Sans wipes his hand off on his jacket, and slips his shorts back on. 

He pulls a wad of bills from his inventory—the capital switched to paper over gold for larger amounts—and counts fifteen off.

He flings the bills in Papyrus’ direction. The money drifts down, some bills landing around him while others stick to his body.

Sans runs a hungry eye over Papyrus, before pulling out his phone and snapping a picture.

“From now on, you’ll be paying rent.”

Sans leaves the room, slamming the door behind him.

Papyrus can’t move, shaking as fluids slip down his mouth, his femurs.

From the adjoining room, Papyrus can hear the faint sound of barking.


	2. You're the Top

When Grillby returns from the kitchen with a plate of steaming food balanced on a tray, there’s a new customer by the bar counter: Sans’ younger brother. He hasn’t hopped up on a barstool; instead, Papyrus hovers by the edge of the counter, nervous and out of place. He rarely visits without Sans.

Hopkins—a regular—leers at him from her stool. “Hiya, cutie.”

Papyrus’ smile is stiff.

Grillby delivers the order to an eager, salivating customer before returning behind the bar. Papyrus eyes him. His mouth half-opens and closes, but he’s evidently unable to summon the courage to speak.

Hopkins, not quite drunk yet but getting there, waves her glass in the bartender’s direction. He refills her drink, and she mumbles her thanks.

“Can I help you with something?” Grillby asks Papyrus.

Despite his gentle tone, the skeleton flinches at being addressed.

“Um…” He consults a scrap of paper. “C-Can I get a burger and fries, with extra ketchup and n-no onions? To go, please?”

Sans’ usual, then.

“So Sans was too busy to fetch his own meal today?” Grillby jokes.

The lights in Papyrus’ eyes shrink. “Oh—no. It’s just, it’s not like I was doing anything important anyway, so…” He trails off, shrugging.

“Give me five minutes.”

Grillby tightens the strings of his apron as he heads back into the kitchen. He can hear Hopkins heckling Papyrus as he leaves, dragging brief but polite responses from him.

They become inaudible once Grillby is inside the kitchen. He retrieves a patty from the fridge. As it sizzles on the grill, he collects the other ingredients. He manipulates the food with a practiced ease, and as the burger cooks he allows his mind to wander.

The one speck of unrest in their bucolic town is the enmity between the skeleton brothers. Sans is all smiles, jokes, and good company at the bar, right up until Papyrus shows to bring him home. His mood sours instantly, and Papyrus is all too easily cut open by barbed words. It’s uncomfortable for everyone present, but who are they to interfere? The brothers’ constant fight is an open secret in Snowdin, but none of them are close enough to either of them to really intrude on the family matter. They’re all just hoping the brothers will be able to work whatever it is out themselves, eventually.

The burger cooked—medium rare, as Sans likes it—Grillby adds the additions, piling on ingredients before enclosing them all in lightly-toasted buns. He sinks a toothpick into the finished burger to keep its structure secure. It drips with grease, ketchup, and flavor. After wrapping the burger up neatly along with fresh-cut fries, Grillby rejoins his customers.

Hopkins, who has already finished her refreshed drink, is slurring advice to Papyrus. The skeleton is listening intently to her drunken knowledge, like a student before a sage. “…takes it all right off. Like floatin’ on a cloud. Too far to care about whatever. You know?”

Grillby sets the to-go bag on the counter as Papyrus mulls her advice over. Hopkins, looking woozy, rests her chin on her folded arms.

“Right.” Papyrus nods. He turns to Grillby, a spark of excitement about him. “Mr. Grillby. I’d like one alcohol, please.”

Hopkins snorts into her sleeve.

“…Right.” Grillby says. “Have you ever drank before?”

“No. But I…” Papyrus puffs up, just a little. “I’m an adult. I can drink if I want to.”

“Give him a shot of fireball. On me.” Hopkins nudges her empty shot glass over to Grillby. “And while you’re at it…”

Grillby pours out the cinnamon whiskey and slides the glasses back over the bar counter.

Papyrus picks up his glass like he doesn’t know the proper way to hold it. He sniffs it, dubious. A disgusted look flits across his features before he schools his expression into one more neutral.

“Down it in one.” Hopkins instructs, before doing just that herself.

“Don’t—” Before Grillby can finish warning him, Papyrus knocks it back.

As soon as it’s down Papyrus is coughing, sputtering. He not-so-subtly wipes away tears from his eye sockets. “That was…great?” Papyrus’ enthusiasm is as weak as his voice.

Hopkins laughs. Grillby glares until she gets the hint and quiets.

“Wait here.” He tells Papyrus.

“Oh,” Papyrus shifts his weight uneasily. Angling himself for the door. “I think I’ve had enough for today—”

“It’ll just take a minute.”

Grillby heads back into the kitchen. He prepares a different beverage, one he’s fairly sure Papyrus will actually enjoy. He adds more milk than the recipe demands—but Papyrus could use it. As a monster who’s made his livelihood feeding others, he’s always been bothered by the brittle, pale look of the skeleton’s bones. He needs to eat more.

Grillby returns to the bar with a tall glass. The frosty drink is already melting from his ambient heat, so he sets it down in front of Papyrus and backs off.

“What is this?” Papyrus eyes it, curious.

“A chocolate milkshake. I think you’ll enjoy the taste of this better.”

Papyrus reaches for it, but then snatches his hand back, contrite. “I’m sorry, but I just have enough for Sans’ food.”

“It’s on the house,” Grillby dismisses. “Think of it as an apology for the fireball.”

“You’re sure?”

Grillby nods, but Papyrus hesitates still.

“Really, Papyrus. It’s fine.”

Finally assuaged, Papyrus takes a cautious sip from the shake.

It’s like a flip has been switched. Papyrus’ face flushes with healthy color, and his eyelights sparkle.

“Wowie! It’s delicious!”

Papyrus finally takes a seat at the counter, and happily drinks the shake. It’s amazing how his demeanor has perked up in such a short span of time. Grillby feels a curl of satisfaction; that’s what good food will do for you.

Hopkins signals Grillby for another glass. She grumbles when he serves her water, but doesn’t insist on more whiskey.

The Dogi enter the bar, woofing hellos to the room. Papyrus startles at the sudden noise. His gaze finds the clock on the wall, and he’s galvanized into action.

“I need to get going.” Papyrus rummages through his pockets and pulls out several gold coins. He counts them out with shaking fingers and hands them over to Grillby.

The milkshake glass is still half full. “Do you want me to get you a cup for this?”

‘”No, no. It’s fine. Thank you. I have to go.”

Papyrus grabs Sans’ food and hurries from the bar.

Grillby circles around the bar counter, making his way over to the dog couple to take their order.

Papyrus is certainly an odd one. Shy, skittish, awkward. But still, there is something about him that’s endearing.

~*~

When the clock nears one in the morning, Grillby shoos his remaining customers out, and, from beneath the bar, pulls out an old beat up radio that doubles as a cassette player. He salvaged it from the Dump years ago, and has slowly but surely amassed a modest cassette collection. The cassette he slots into the radio today has old tracks, from early 19XX. The gentle swing tunes drift through the bar. One day he’ll shell out and get a real jukebox, but for now, he makes due with his scavenged prize.

While the music plays, he gets to work. He pulls on thick waterproof dishwashing gloves, before filling a bucket with water and soap. He dunks a cloth into the water, and wipes down the bar counter, the tables. Checks the undersides of both for trash and stubborn gum. As he straightens up from bending under each table, a stabbing ache develops in the small of his back. He rubs at the spot of pain and wills it to ebb.

Once the bar is spick and span, it’s approaching two and he’s feeling weary, but there’s more still to be done. He heads into the kitchen and thoroughly scrubs every used dish and utensil, before taking out the trash for the day in the alley behind the bar.

Exhaustion weighing heavily upon him, he heads home after locking up. His house is one in a row of quaint, quiet homes.

When at last inside he yanks off his apron, tugs off his tie, and lets them both drop haphazardly on the floor. He checks his phone; there’s a missed call and a message from Fuku.

“ _Hi, Uncle Grillby!”_ She sounds like a teenager now. When had that happened? Grillby feels a stab of guilt. “ _Dad wanted to know if you’d be coming to the Gyftmas party.”_ Then, hushed: “ _Mom doesn’t think you’ll show up. She says she’s not even putting out a place setting. Think how funny the look on her face would be if you did come!_ ” Fuku laughs, tinny through the speaker. “ _But, yeah. Let me or Dad know if you can make it. Later!”_

The message ends with a click. Grillby’s finger hovers over the redial—he’s seen her Undernet posts at odd hours of the night, she’d still be awake despite the late hour—but he ends up powering the phone down. He’ll deal with it later.

Not bothering to change, Grillby collapses onto his bed. A soreness pulls at his back. Grimacing, he grasps for the bedside table. He snatches up the half-full bottle of pain pills, and dry swallows down two of them.

He seals the bottle and tosses it off the bed.

He curls on his side. For so long he’s been content in his decision, fueled by his passion. But lately, every day folds into the next, near-seamless copies. The usual, the regulars. He’s tired.

~*~

Grillby imports most of his ingredients wholesale from New Home, but today he’s run out of coffee creamer. So before opening up shop for the day, he has to make a quick stop at the General Store for this dire necessity.

Usagi’s floppy ears point upwards as he enters.

“Well hello there!” She chimes, cheerful as ever. “What can I do for you today, hun? Come for one of my cinnamon bunnies?”

“Not today, I’m afraid.”

She’s always heavy on the cinnamon. He doesn’t have the heart to tell her. He finds the creamer and brings it to the register.

“2G.” Usagi says, punching the item into the register. After a moment of thought, Grillby grabs a bottle of pain pills and places it on the counter as well.

“7G, now.” Usagi frowns. “You’re not taking out your back at that bar of yours?”

“It’s fine.” Grillby hands over the gold.

“I had the same problem before my sister’s kids started coming in to help with closing.” Usagi’s fingers drum on the counter. “You know, that skeleton has been asking for work lately.”

“ _Sans_?” The idea that his slovenly regular is willfully looking for extra work seems unbelievable. Besides, he’s seen his house—it’s not like he’s strapped for cash.

“No, no. His brother! The tall one. He’s been buying kibble lately. Got himself a dog, he says. Been begging all over for work to help care for it.”

Grillby frowns. From what he knows of Sans’ jobs, he could easily afford Papyrus’ pet. Well, he is the older brother. Maybe he wants to teach Papyrus responsibility.

“Why not throw him a bone?” Usagi suggests. “Hire him as a waiter or something.”

Usagi is always nagging him to hire on more staff, but for once he’s actually considering it. His back _has_ been bothering him lately, moreso than usual. And someone who could clean dishes without layers of protection would be useful.

Grillby leaves the General Store with coffee creamer, pills, and an emerging idea.

~*~

He has his chance when Papyrus returns to his bar a few days later, asking for Sans’ usual once again.

“Papyrus.”

The skeleton jumps at the sound of his name.

“Usagi told me you were looking for work. Would you be interested in a position here?”

Papyrus’ eyes brighten with interest, but then the twin lights are abruptly snuffed.

“O-Oh, I shouldn’t. I’m not good at crowds, and people and…”

“You can stay in the back.” Grillby assures him. “Really I just need someone to help with dishes, prep work. Keeping an eye on the fryer. Things like that.”

“I…I don’t know,” Papyrus mumbles. He hunches, trying to look small. “I probably wouldn’t be any good at it.”

“I’m not trying to force you into anything. I just wanted to let you know the offer’s available.”

Papyrus looks at the floor. Grillby feels befuddled, and admittedly put out. He’d thought Papyrus would leap on the opportunity, and was looking forward to another set of hands.

“If….If I said yes.” Papyrus rubs his arm. “Do you think you could keep my job a secret from everyone? Especially Sans.”

“Why?”

“Because. I—I’m trying to save up. For a gift for my brother. I don’t want him to know. And if his friends knew, they’d tell him I work here.”

A flicker of surprise runs through Grillby. If Papyrus wants to go to such lengths, it’s possible he’s trying to patch up his relationship with Sans.

“Very well. If it means that much to you, I won’t say a thing. You can work in the kitchen exclusively, and leave out the back if you want.”

“Then in that case, I accept!” Grillby is bemused as Papyrus clasps his hands in his own, his eyes gathering with tears. Above grateful, he’s acting like Grillby just saved his life. “Thank you, Mr. Grillby. Thank you.”

“…Sure.” He certainly is odd. “Can you start tomorrow?”

Papyrus nods so hard he rattles.

“Excellent. I’ll see you then.”

~*~

Snowdin is dark in the early morning. The festive lights strung up around the town are set on a timer, not meant to go off for hours yet. Smothering a yawn with his hand, Grillby reaches for his keys as he nears his bar. He stops short near the entrance.

Papyrus is already on the front stoop, shivering in his short-sleeved shirt.

“You’re here early.”

His new hire looks at him with wide, guilty eyes. “Oh! Did y-you want me to come later? I’m sorry, I should’ve known to—”

“It’s okay.” Grillby assures him, before he can lather himself into a panic. He’d told Papyrus to come in the morning. Thinking of Sans, he’d assumed Papyrus wouldn’t appear until much later. “I can show you my set up procedures, since you’re already here.”

Grillby lets them both inside. He raises his body temperature a fraction, to heat the room faster for his companion.

“Let me show you around the back.”

He leads his new employee past the door by the bar, into the kitchen. Grillby gestures around the space.

“This is where you’ll be doing most of your work.”

The appliances aren’t top of the line, but Grillby has taken pains to treat them well and clean them frequently. The kitchen is broken down into sections: a space for the grill and fryer, another for the oven, a long counter to prepare cold meals, and a dishwashing station. Various cooking utensils line the walls, and a well-stocked fridge sits in one corner of the room.

Grillby waves a hand in the direction of the sink, several dishes from the previous night piled in it. “That’s mostly where I’ll have you working. I’ll also start training you on daily prep lists, once you get used to the washing.”

Papyrus nods, listening so raptly Grillby’s almost surprised he isn’t writing this all down.

In addition to the door they entered in from the bar, there’s a second near the back of the kitchen. Grillby opens it for them, showing Papyrus inside. “This is the back room. Think of it as a break room.” It’s furnished with an old but cozy couch, and another radio.

“And past that door at the back there, that leads to behind the bar. If I ever need you to take out trash, you’d go through here.”

The tour concluded, Grillby brings Papyrus back to the kitchen, to get started on the dishes. He grabs an apron from his inventory, as well as gloves.

“Put these on.”

Papyrus’ petite frame is swamped in Grillby’s clothes. The apron’s width is more than enough to wrap around Papyrus’ body and then some. The gloves creep up near his shoulders.

Grillby walks his new employee through the basics; which tools are best depending on the food residue and cookware, the level of cleanliness that’s expected of him. Grillby then hands him one of the dishes to start. Papyrus takes to the task eagerly, scrubbing with enthusiasm.

Grillby leaves him to it. He gets to work on his own task, prepping vegetables for the day’s orders. He glances Papyrus’ way occasionally as he crosses out items on his prep list.

He’s dicing green peppers for the daily special when he hears a crash.

He looks up, alarmed. Papyrus’ soapy gloves are outstretched, and there’s a pile of broken porcelain at his feet.

“Are you hurt?” Grillby asks, looking him over for any nicks or scrapes. Papyrus seems fine, merely rattled.

“I’m—I’m so sorry.” Papyrus’ expression is as shattered as the plate.

“It’s alright, Papyrus. Really.” Grillby emphasizes to his flappable employee. “Just try to be more careful, alright?”

Papyrus nods fervently. He bends down and reaches for the shards. “I’ll clean it up right away.”

“Hold on.” This skeleton has no sense of self-preservation. Grillby fetches him a broom and dustpan. “Use these. Don’t cut yourself on anything.”

Papyrus starts cleaning up the mess. Grillby can tell his presence makes Papyrus anxious, so he makes himself busy in the front. He buffs at stubborn stains on the bar counter with an old rag.

The skeleton brothers had shown up in town one day, over a year ago now it has to be. Sans fit right in at once. He has a charming air about him that makes it easy to carry on pleasant conversation. The type you always look forward to seeing again, knowing he’d have more crazy tales to spin the next time.

Papyrus, on the other hand, seemed more ghost than skeleton, with how easily he blended in to the surroundings. Thinking back now, Grillby doesn’t recall seeing him about town often. Maybe a few times, in passing, they’d brush by each other. Grillby, on his way to work, and Papyrus heading for the forest that bordered Snowdin’s western edge. A group of children frequent the woods, but he couldn’t see them mingling with Papyrus. What does he do out there, all alone?

Grillby can’t help a swell of pity. With just a few hours of working with him, it’s clear Papyrus is painfully shy. It’s no doubt kept him from reaching out to other members of the community and making friends.

When he gave Papyrus the milkshake, when Papyrus allowed himself to relax, it was like his true personality peeped out of its shell. Papyrus had been goofy, in an endearing way. A lightness of spirit.

Grillby wants to see that part of Papyrus again.

~*~

As the month progresses, Papyrus proves to be an unexpected blessing. After a few bumps in the beginning, Papyrus’ nerves settle, and he becomes more comfortable in his position. He’s a model worker, always on time, always pouring 110% into everything he does. Grillby has to urge him to take breaks, sometimes going as far as to shepherd him into the back room himself to make sure he stays there.

With Papyrus’ quick and efficient work, Grillby is able to close up the bar and retire to bed much earlier than he used to, with a lot less aches and pains accompanying him.

As Papyrus masters tasks, Grillby introduces additional ones. This morning, they’re working side by side, preparing vegetables for a stew. They’re close enough that their elbows brush as they work. Soft jazz plays from the radio, and Grillby hums along gently.

He glances sidelong over to Papyrus to assess his progress. He’s dicing vegetables with a manic precision.

“You’re good at this. You cut very evenly.” While Papyrus is like a kicked puppy when criticized, he lights up at the simplest praise.

“Thank you,” Papyrus murmurs, a pleased smile on his face.

“Do you cook often in your spare time?”

Papyrus shakes his head.

“You have a very steady hand, then.”

Papyrus doubles down on his work. Grillby thinks it might be the end of their short conversation, when Papyrus pipes up again.

“…Sometimes, I like to make dioramas. Layouts of puzzles and traps on different terrain. I have to cut a lot of small pieces.”

Papyrus is a history buff? Grillby wouldn’t have guessed he enjoyed something so traditional.

“Have you built any traps? The dogs would probably let you set one up in the forest.”

“Oh, they’re not that good, really. I’m sure if I put up a trap a human would walk right past it.”

Grillby frowns. He tries to engage him from another avenue. “Usagi mentioned a while back that you have a pet. A dog, right?”

That perks him up. “Yes! A small white one, just two years old. Although sometimes I wonder if it’s not a dog at all, but a demon!”

“Oh?”

Papyrus reaches for another pepper. It’s more prep then they’ll need, but Grillby says nothing. Papyrus chops away.

“Yes!” He scowls, but his tone is fond. “The pesky canine stole all the socks from my drawer the other day. Every. Single. One! I was looking everywhere! And guess where the dog stashed them all!”

“Behind the couch?” Grillby guesses.

“Beneath the kitchen sink. It built a nest from my socks. Now there’s dog hair on _everything_.”

“So, what did you do when you found the dog?”

“Well, I meant to scold it. But then it licked my hand in apology. So, being the better monster, I let bybones be bybones.”

Grillby laughs at the mental image of Papyrus chasing a tiny dog around.

“Nyeh heh heh.” Papyrus giggles with him.

Grillby’s soul warms at the sound.

“What?” Papyrus asks, and Grillby realizes he’s been staring.

“Nothing. I’ve just never heard your laugh before. It’s nice.”

“Oh.” Papyrus’ cheekbones flush a pretty orange. He’s suddenly very interested in the prep work, scooping vegetables into plastic bins.

Despite Papyrus’ embarrassment, he leans a bit closer to Grillby. They work with arms nearly touching, Grillby’s flames licking harmlessly against Papyrus’ sleeve.

~*~

Grillby frowns at the clock on the wall. Papyrus is normally idling at the bar before Grillby even gets there, but ten minutes have passed since he got in and there’s no sign yet of his employee. Maybe he’s sick, but Grillby has no way of knowing. Grillby asked before if he had a cellphone, to keep in contact with about his work schedule, but Papyrus said he didn’t. Maybe he could call Sans, instead?

Grillby is halfway through a text to the skeleton brother when he stalls. Papyrus wanted to keep his job a secret. Asking Sans where Papyrus was would arouse suspicion.

Right as he finishes deleting the half-formed message, the front door opens.

“Welcome, Papyrus.” Grillby greets him.

Papyrus’ body language is oddly stiff. He’s keeping his gaze down, angling himself away from Grillby.

“Hi, Mr. Grillby.” He sounds subdued. “Sorry I’m late.”

Papyrus tries to brush past him and into the kitchen, but he’s not quick enough—Grillby sees what he’s trying to hide.

He sucks in a sharp breath and follows him into the kitchen.

“Papyrus, are you alright?”

“It’s nothing.”

Papyrus heads to his work station. Fiddling around and trying to look busy.

“It’s not  _nothing_.” Grillby grabs Papyrus’ chin, angling his face to better see the bruising around his mandible.

“It looks worse than it is.” Papyrus says, but winces when Grillby’s fingers probe closer to the injured area.

“What happened?”

“Oh, it…” Papyrus colors. “I was just being stupid. As usual. I tripped.”

“You tripped?” Grillby reiterates, skeptical. That’s significant bruising for a _fall_.

“I was carrying laundry downstairs and I fell. I hit my face at a bad angle. It’s fine, really.”

Papyrus tries to back away, but Grillby keeps hold of him. “Hold still for a minute.”

The flames of his hand flicker green. Grillby transfers healing magic over until the pain leaves Papyrus’ face.

“That should speed along the healing process.” The bruises are still present, but will disappear faster.

“Um…” Papyrus croaks, face aflame, and Grillby realizes he’s just been mindlessly stroking Papyrus’ cheek with his thumb.

Grillby snatches his hand back. He clears his throat.

“I should get back to work.”

Once Grillby moves past his embarrassment, he offers to let Papyrus go home early, but he declines.

A slow afternoon becomes a busy evening as regulars pack the bar to spend their paychecks for the week. The bar may not have a jukebox yet, but it’s plenty loud enough with all the chatter from the bar’s patrons. The royal guard pack crowd around one table, playing their weekly poker match. Big Mouth slurps a milkshake. Hopkins sits with Scarlet at the bar, the two chatting about their love lives, or rather, lack thereof. Greymane sits in his usual corner with his leather jacket on despite the bar’s warmth, taking pains to look the part of an enigmatic bad boy.

The front bell jingles as another enters their midst. The patrons all turn to look, and cry out in joy.

“Sans!”

“Hey, Sansy!”

Sans gives the crowd a cheeky grin and a half-wave.

Grillby watches him weave through the bar, going from group to group. He tosses bone attacks to the dogs, tells jokes that make even Greymane crack a grin.

Finally, he hops up on his customary bar stool. He winks over at the girls, sending them into fits of tipsy giggles.

“Where’ve you been lately? We’ve been lonely without you, Sansy.” Hopkins pouts.

“Oh, you know. Just up to one of my usual _hare_ -brained schemes.”

Hopkins guffaws. With the objectivity of sobriety, Grillby thinks that was far from his best pun.

Sans props his head in his hand.

“Heya Grillbz. Lookin’ hot today.” The same joke as always. Grillby finds he has less patience to humor Sans since Papyrus started working for him. Papyrus is sweet, gentle—what cause does Sans have to be so cruel to him?

“Burg and fries, if ya would.” Sans slides a stack of bills over. “And just keep the beers coming.”

Grillby pockets the money before entering the kitchen. Papyrus has heard Sans’ arrival, that much is apparent in the stiffness of his posture. He keeps his head bowed as he scrubs furiously at phantom stains on a bowl.

“If he’s bothering you, you can go home early, if you’d like.”

“I’m fine.” Papyrus flashes him a wan smile. “But thank you.”

Grillby returns to the bar before too long with Sans’ order. The skeleton dives into his burger, smearing ketchup on his face with a greedy bite.

He frowns. “You feelin’ ok, Grillbz?” Sans shows Grillby the burger. It’s past well done, blackened. “Little charred today.”

Grillby reaches for the plate, apologetic.

“Nah, it’s fine. Kinda smokey.” Sans takes another bite, more content now that he’s expecting the taste.

It’s odd of him to mess up an order like that. When he first started cooking as a cinder, he had many a misfire. His fluctuating magic levels produced dishes anywhere from tepid to molten. One night he attempted to cook dinner for his family, and emerged from the kitchen with a heap of ashes. Oh, how his sister had laughed.

Grillby learned to control his flames and to leave any negative thoughts from his mind when he worked. Evidently he’d been too careless tonight.

Sans doesn’t mind too much, and his mood mellows further when he gets a few beers in him.

As the hours go by, slowly the crowd disperses until the only one left is Sans. Fast asleep, his head pillowed in his arms. No doubt there’s a puddle of drool forming on the counter.

Usually when Sans does this, Papyrus comes by to pick him up. Occasionally, Papyrus would poke his head in and Sans wouldn’t be at the bar, meaning he’d left his brother alone without telling him where he’d be and when he’d be back, leaving Papyrus to worry. Grillby had always thought it rude Sans would force his brother to guess his location.

Sans snores gently. Maybe Grillby’s being unfair to him. He doesn’t know Sans’ situation—for a talkative guy he’s surprisingly secretive—but he always had the feeling Sans is grappling with a heavy personal issue. Once he gets one too many beers in him, there’s a weariness to him. Maybe Sans is doing the best he can under his circumstances.

Grillby meets Papyrus as he returns from taking out the trash.

“I think your brother is ready to go home.”

“Oh. I’m sorry he’s always so…” Papyrus trails off, embarrassed on his brother’s behalf.

Grillby shrugs. “It comes with the territory.”

They return to the bar together, after Papyrus stashes his work apron into his inventory.

Papyrus’ frame is too slight to carry Sans home without waking him. He shakes Sans’ shoulder.

“It’s time to go home, brother.” Papyrus says, softly.

“Shut up, Papyrus.” Sans groans. His eyes open to a squint. “Why are you always so fuckin’ loud?”

Papyrus slings Sans’ arm over his shoulders and pulls him from his bar stool. Grillby wants to help, but he doubts Papyrus would let him take over, so he does what he can and gets the door for the two of them.

Some nights Sans goes quietly along, but tonight he’s belligerent. He’s struggling with Papyrus, trying to grope at his hip.

“Sans, knock it off.” Papyrus scolds him with a hushed whisper.

“C’mon, give me a beej.” Sans slurs. “Fuckin’ cocksucker.”

Well, _that_ was a new one.

Papyrus’ flustered gaze snaps up to Grillby.

“I’m so sorry. S-Sans is just—he’s been through a lot lately.” Papyrus says in a rush. “It’s stress from work. He doesn’t know who he’s talking to.”

“Do you need help getting him home?” Maybe he’s more drunk than Grillby thought, if he can’t recognize his own brother.

“No, no, I can do this. Goodnight.”

Papyrus all but drags Sans from the bar. Grillby watches them go from the doorjamb. Sans tries to paw at Papyrus, who knocks his hand away.

Grillby resolves to be firmer with Sans’ alcohol limits. He hadn’t been paying attention tonight, and it wasn’t fair that Papyrus is stuck dealing with the fallout.

Once the brothers are out of sight, he returns inside.

~*~

With a dollop of whipped cream, Grillby finishes off his newest milkshake. He wanted to branch out in flavors, and try something more unique than the standard vanilla, chocolate, and strawberry. Slowly he’s been introducing new desserts to his menu. For this shake, he blended scoops of ice cream with frozen bananas, crumbled walnuts, and caramel made from scratch.

Grillby can’t really enjoy frozen treats himself; the food melts before it even reaches his mouth. Papyrus has become his taste-tester in his stead, before the dishes make their way out to the public.

He’d prepared the milkshake in time for Papyrus’ arrival (a sugary breakfast, but he’s sure Papyrus won’t mind) but his employee is running late today. He sets the finished milkshake in the fridge to await his arrival.

Grillby takes a seat on the couch in the back room, waiting for Papyrus to arrive. His leg jiggles as he watches the door. Today’s the day, he’s decided. Well, yesterday was the day, and so was the day before that. But today. Today for sure will be the day that he finally asks if Papyrus would like to go out with him. On a date.

He’s been working with Papyrus nearly every day for the past two months. He has no delusions that if he asks Papyrus out they’ll be swept up in a passionate whirlwind romance. He’s a simple enough monster. Papyrus is shy, quirky—but he’s kind, caring, and adorable, too. Grillby looks forward to spending time with him at work, and when he’s home he finds himself thinking over things Papyrus said, or replaying the sound of his laugh in his mind. Grillby thinks it’s worth a shot, to explore if they could mean something more to each other than employee and employer.

When Papyrus enters, Grillby dismisses his apology and explanation for his tardiness (his dog thought it’d be fun to run away with one of his shoes) and brings him into the bar.

“I wanted you to try this.”

Grillby sets the shake before him, and Papyrus’ eyes light up. He scoops up a mouthful with a spoon and eats it.

“Do you like the taste?”

Papyrus nods.

“Everything you make tastes wonderful.” Papyrus compliments him, shyly.

It’s now or never. Grillby leans across the bar counter, trying to broadcast confidence.

“Papyrus, I have something I’ve been meaning to ask you. Something important.”

“…Yes?” Papyrus asks, when Grillby doesn’t follow that up. He’s trying to think of the best way to articulate this—why didn’t he write it down? Why didn’t he actually prepare something instead of just thinking about it?

“I—”

The front door rattles. Someone’s trying to get in, but Grillby hasn’t unlocked the front door yet. Papyrus just about leaps out of his metaphorical skin, and scurries into the kitchen before he can be spotted.

His chance has closed. Grillby clears away the milkshake before letting the customer inside.

It turns out to be a slow morning. Papyrus shoots him curious looks every time he reenters the kitchen to grab something, but Grillby holds off on providing an explanation. He still wants to ask Papyrus out properly, like he deserves.

At noon, the quiet mood of the bar is shattered as a herd of children rush inside, two beleaguered schoolteachers trailing after them. A New Home school insignia is on their uniforms.

“You serve food here, don’t you?” Asks one weary teacher.

“Of course.” Grillby brings out the menus he’d recently had laminated at the library, updated to include dessert options. He also taps into his rarely used stash of crayons and puzzle sheets, which the children take to with enthusiasm. Some fill out the puzzles, but most just scribble all over the page.

One of the schoolteachers reads out menu items to the children. They raise their hands when they hear something they like, and Grillby jots it all down. The teachers give him their orders as well, bringing the total to fifteen.

Grillby steps into the kitchen. Papyrus is idling by the empty dishwasher.

“There’s a class field trip in town from New Home.” Grillby explains as he shows Papyrus the long order. “Let’s get these orders out fast before the kids get antsy.”

Being children, they’re drawn to sweets. Many ordered shakes and ice creams. Papyrus works on the cold treats while Grillby fires up a bunch of sliders.

They work quickly; Grillby is soon back out the door with a tray of food, with Papyrus following behind him, balancing his own plate of sweets. Normally Papyrus remains in the kitchen, but the children need to be served simultaneously or they’ll liable to have a riot on their hands.

As soon as the food is set down the children set upon it like ravenous animals. The teachers look relieved for some peace from the commotion, and dig into their own meals.

“Let me know if you need anything else.”

The front door bell jingles.

Grillby looks up. “Welcome to Grillby’s—”

The greeting dies halfway out.

“Hey Grillbz, just figured I’d stop by for a quick bite.” Sans winks at him. “But jeez. Don’t think I’ll be getting fast food with this crowd in here.”

Papyrus tries to sneak back out into the kitchen; Sans follows Grillby’s line of sight and spots his brother. Something in Sans’ expression shifts.

“Papyrus?” Any emotion, good or bad, is squeezed from his voice. But his eyelights are snuffed out.

Papyrus, face pale, flees into the kitchen. Grillby feels compelled to explain for him in his wake.

“He’d said that he’d wanted to surprise you with a present.” Grillby says, trying to mask how Sans’ hollow eye sockets unnerve him. “So he’d asked me to keep his employment a secret.”

Sans has no cause to be angry with his brother. Grillby won’t stand for it; Papyrus had been trying to do something nice for him.

The fires reignite in Sans’ sockets. The grin returns to his face. “He really shouldn’t have.”

Grillby wants to ask him more—finally press about their fight, _something_ —but before he can get a word out, one of the teachers is sidling up to him with a rather sticky-looking child.

“Excuse me,” She’s breathless. “Our table could use some napkins.”

“I’ll find lunch somewhere less popular.” Sans heads for the door. “Have a good one, Grillbz.”

And he’s gone.

~*~

Color doesn’t return to Papyrus’ cheeks despite the rigorous cleanup in the aftermath of lunch. Grillby offers twice to let him go home, but Papyrus remains obstinate. Once the dinner rush ends, it’s just the two of them in the bar.

“I can handle the rest of this.” Grillby gestures to the remaining cleanup. He really would appreciate Papyrus’ help, but the skeleton looks dead on his feet. He can’t in good conscience keep him any later.

“Mr. Grillby, what had you wanted to ask me? Earlier.”

“I don’t think now is the best time—”

“Please.” Papyrus is right in front of him. This close, he can see the slight flecks of amber in his eyelights.

Well. Guess it’s now or never, then. Grillby squares his shoulders.

“As we’ve spent time together, I’ve found that I…enjoy your company. I wanted to know if you’d be interested in going a date. With me.”

“I…” Papyrus swallows. “Why?”

“Why what?” Grillby asks, bewildered.

“I don’t understand. Why would you like me? You—You _can’t_.”

Before Grillby can say anything, though, Papyrus heads for the door.

“Wait—”

Papyrus leaves, shutting the bar door behind him. The cheery jingle of the bells mocks him. Grillby urges himself to move. He can catch up to Papyrus and…do what?

Papyrus isn’t interested. Grillby clearly made him uncomfortable. The signs he thought he saw—the furtive glances, brushes of contact—had been embellished in memory. Wishful thinking on his part spoiled his friendship with the skittish skeleton.

Feeling like dirt on the bottom of a boot, Grillby finishes cleaning up the bar by himself.

The following morning, Papyrus doesn’t show up to work.


	3. Into Each Life Some Rain Must Fall

When Papyrus returns home, Sans is waiting for him. There’s a disappointed air about him, like a parent that caught their child sneaking out.

“Well, where is it?” Sans holds out his hand, expectantly.

“Where’s what?” Sans scowls at that, and Papyrus’ insides twist. He doesn’t mean to be difficult.

“The gold Grillby paid you. I want to see all of it.” Sans’ tone is calm, but with the weight of warning behind it.

No. No no no. This wasn’t how Papyrus wanted this to go. He’d prepared himself for pain. He could endure it as he has before. But he’d had a plan, and it’s all unravelling in the face of Sans’ cold logic.

“ _Now_.”

Papyrus snaps to obey. He pulls out his old schoolbag from his inventory. He upends it, spilling the gold out before Sans.

Sans sweeps a critical eye over the coins. “This is everything?”

“Yes. Though, um. I did use some for dog food.”

“What was your hourly rate?”

Papyrus tells him, and is left to watch as Sans painstakingly counts out every coin.

Sweat drips down his spine. Should he apologize? Would that make it better or worse?

“At least you’re honest now,” Sans says as he finishes counting.

He scoops the gold back into the backpack, and puts it away in his own inventory. Papyrus’ eyes sting with the need to cry, but he holds it back. It’s just—it’s not _fair_. A few more weeks and he would’ve made it. All ruined over his stupid mistake.

“What was your genius plan? Going to save up enough to run away from me?” Sans snorts derisively. “As if you could. As if you’d make it alone without me.”

“I’ll quit my job. If that’s what you want me to do.” It’d be better for him to get some distance from Grillby, too.

Sans shakes his head. “You lied to me, Papyrus. Do you really think I’m going to let you off so easily? With a little slap on the wrist? No. Big brother needs to teach you a lesson.”

Sans rises, advances towards him. Papyrus stumbles back. With a flick of his brother’s hand, Papyrus is stopped still by his magic.

“You need to learn what the consequences are for keeping things from me.”

Sans grabs Papyrus’ wrist in a harsh grip, and then his magic drags them both into Sans’ bedroom. Papyrus is set on the mattress, like Sans is adjusting a doll. If he could move he’d be shaking.

“I’d been planning on saving this for something else.” Sans tells him, as he rummages in a shipping box. “But I think you could use it now.”

He pulls the item out of the box, and wags it in front of Papyrus’ face. It’s a large, girthy dildo, with bumps along the length and a curved tip.

Sans drops his hold on Papyrus’ soul, and presses the dildo into his hands. Does Sans expect him to…? There’s no way. He can’t.

Papyrus sets the dildo to the side and nuzzles at his brother’s crotch. “Sans, I’m sorry. Can’t we just…?”

“Can’t talk your way out of this, sweetheart. Here. I’ll get you started.”

“Wait—”

Sans pushes him onto the mattress. Papyrus’ pants and underwear are yanked down, exposing his bare body. Sans rubs two fingers along Papyrus’ pelvis, tickling his sacrum before stroking insistently at his pubic symphysis. Normally the friction is enough to coax his arousal forward, but Papyrus is near-sick with dreadful anticipation. He’s the furthest thing possible from aroused.

“Making me work for it, huh?”

Sans pushes Papyrus’ closed legs apart. His tongue, thick and wet, swipes up Papyrus’ pubic symphysis. His warm tongue sends tingling jolts of arousal through Papyrus that his cold fingers couldn’t. Magic thickens and condenses, ectoflesh padding his body from his chest to his toes.

There’s no further preparation. Papyrus is closer to dry than wet, but Sans presses the bulbous dildo to the lips of his entrance and pushes in.

Small whimpers are ripped from Papyrus’ mouth. Instinctively, he grabs Sans’ wrist, trying to pull his hand off and remove the thing forcing its way inside him, spreading him wider than he can take. It’s scraping his insides raw.

“Don’t cry, bro.” Sans thumbs the tears away from his cheekbones. “You know I don’t like this either, but you’re making me do it. How else are you going to learn?”

Papyrus shuts his eyes. His pelvis is burning, his magic stretching beyond its limit as Sans works the dildo in and out of him.

He tries not to think, but he needs a distraction from the pounding pain. Unbidden, an image of Grillby surfaces. His features pinched in concern as he sent healing magic to his bruise. His fingers had been so warm, their touch, gentle.

“Sit up, Papyrus.”

His eyes snap open as Sans removes the dildo entirely. He sits up, his body tensing further. That can’t be it.

“Why should I do all the work?” Sans explains. “It’s your punishment.”

He tosses the sex toy into Papyrus’ lap. Papyrus grips the bottom of the dildo. It’s clammy with sweat from Sans’ grip. He grabs the toy with both hands, positioning it.

Sans will get mad if he does it slow. Better like a bandage, all at once.

Squaring his shoulders, he shoves it inside.

“ _Ghck_!” Papyrus chokes on the pain. The dildo didn’t slide in all the way; more than half of it is still outside him, his body too tense to allow it in. He rocks the dildo in and out. With each thrust inside it goes a little deeper, until finally he can fit the entire thing inside. Liquid dribbles down his thighs. The sex toy hasn’t wrested much pleasure from him; with sinking dread Papyrus realizes that something must be torn inside him, the magic bleeding out.

Sans, who was palming himself through his shorts at Papyrus’ display, now tugs down the waistband just enough to free his cock. Sans pumps his erection a few times before pressing the tip to Papyrus’ teeth.

“Get to multitaskin’.”

This at least, he has practice with. Sans doesn’t fuck him often; he prefers blowjobs, handjobs, anything where he can just lay back and watch Papyrus work. While one of his hands continues to thrust the dildo inside himself, he uses the other to steady himself by gripping Sans’ femur.

Papyrus licks at the tip, getting a full taste of Sans’ bitter precum before he takes his brother in his mouth. Sans is big enough that his girth fits snugly. His face stuffed to the brim with cock.

The magic leaking from inside Papyrus’ entrance acts as a lubricant, shaving off a bit of the pain. Papyrus swallows around Sans’ cock. As his brother becomes more focused inward, on his own mounting pleasure, Papyrus slows the pace of the dildo to a more manageable speed.

Sans grunts, and his hands scrabble at Papyrus’ skull, a sure sign he’s close. Papyrus sucks harder; he wants this to be over.

But instead of finishing, Sans pushes Papyrus’ skull back, freeing his shaft.

“On your hands and knees.” Sans growls, voice husky with lust.

The dildo drops out of Papyrus’ hand, bouncing onto the mattress. It’s wet with magic. Sans sneers.

“Enjoyed yourself, huh?”

Papyrus shakes his head mutely, but Sans isn’t paying attention. His phalanges graze the swell of Papyrus’ ass before his hands skim forward to lift Papyrus’ hips. Sans’ dick prods at Papyrus’ asshole.

Papyrus whips his head around. “Wait, that’s—!”

He shrieks as Sans impales him. He’d thought Sans fit tightly inside his pussy, but this is somehow _worse_. Grunting, Sans pistons inside him. Papyrus’ arms can’t support him any longer; they drop, and his face is pushed into the mattress. When he inhales, he gets a noseful of stale sweat and cotton. Tears and saliva make the fabric grow damp.

“Hnna, fuck, Papyrus!”

Sans’ seed shoots inside him. Sans grips him tightly as he rides out his orgasm, fingers digging into Papyrus’ hips.

When he pulls out, he lets Papyrus’ body drop to the mattress. Papyrus’ lower half throbs, fluids seeping from both his holes.

Sans lets loose a gusty, contented sigh. He nudges Papyrus over a bit on the mattress and flops down on it beside him. He throws a possessive arm around Papyrus’ waist, and in minutes he’s snoring.

~*~

Come morning Sans is gone, presumably at one of his many jobs. Papyrus is sore. He feels grimy, dried cum and magic crusted on his body. His ectoflesh hadn’t dissolved itself in the night. Evidently he has to take care of the tears before it’ll vanish.

Papyrus’ hands drift down, his fingers barely grazing his entrance. He wills the magic to manifest, but he’s never been a great healer; green magic sparks at the tips of his phalanges before dying out. Maybe with a bit of food in him he’ll do better. But that’ll require movement.

Papyrus grimaces. As much as he’d like to, he can’t just lay here. There’s someone dependent on him, still waiting for their dinner from last night.

He braces himself on the mattress, and pushes himself up slowly. His lower half protests even the slightest movement, each small shift pulling at the tender area. With a muffled groan he’s able to stand. His pants are somewhere in the mess of a room, and he can’t even conceptualize bending down to pick them up right now. His t-shirt, its hem ending near the tops of his thighs, is enough for now. Even if it leaves him a bit chilled.

Papyrus hobbles from the room, teeth grit with discomfort. Using the wall to propel him forward, he drags himself to his own bedroom.

Ever since his deal with Sans was struck, he’s slept in his brother’s room, on the lumpy, putrid mattress. At least the smell went away after a time, because he got used to it. A thin layer of dust has settled over his furniture in his absence, but Papyrus hardly has the energy to clean.

The dog, who had been resting curled in a nest of Papyrus’ blankets, perks up at his entrance. Yipping, its tail wagging furiously, the dog stumps over to him. It still has a cast on one leg, but it doesn’t let that stop it from greeting Papyrus. He runs a hand through his pet’s fur, smoothing out areas mussed from its nap. The dog licks at Papyrus’ hand, and jumps up to try to reach his face. There’s still water in the dog’s bowl, but the food bowl is empty.

Gingerly, Papyrus opens the closet door. A heavy bag of dog food rests on the floor, leaning against the closet wall. He debates on how to fill the dog’s empty bowl. Is it worth it to expend magic to move the objects, to not aggravate his wounds? Weighing his options, Papyrus eventually decides to preserve his magic for his future healing attempts.

Teeth grit, he stoops down and lifts the bag. The dog crowds him, and he feels a stab of guilt. He’s kept the dog confined to his room as it recovers, unless he’s home to supervise it. He’s been so busy with work at Grillby’s lately that the dog rarely has time in the rest of the house, and needs to wait until Papyrus comes home to be fed again. It’s not fair to the animal, but it’s also not worth the consequences of Sans’ wrath if the dog gets underfoot, or tries to bite him again.

Papyrus uncurls the bag and pours out the food. It pours too quickly and overflows around the bowl. He sighs, but leaves the excess. He detests messes, but the dog will eat it all eventually. Already his pet is digging in, tail still wagging. Does it ever get tired?

After rolling up the bag again and returning it to his closet, Papyrus limps to his bookcase. The case is far from full, home to just a few scattered books and knickknacks that he scrounged out of the Dump. One item he’d found long ago was a false book, meant for storing trinkets and the like. Papyrus pulls it off the shelf and undoes the cheap clasp.

He hadn’t been…entirely….honest with Sans. In addition to his pay, Grillby also gave him half of the tips. He places the small sack of gold into his inventory for safekeeping. What he has left isn’t anywhere close to the pay Sans took from him, but it’s better than nothing.

He replaces the hollow book on the shelf, and lays down on his bed. The dog, finished eating for now, hops up to join him. Papyrus pets it absently.

He’s so, so late to his shift at Grillby’s bar. Working today after last night is unfathomable, but still guilt twists his insides. Grillby must think he’s too embarrassed after the confession to show up. He might assume Papyrus quit, even.

Never would he have expected Grillby to confess to him, apart from in his private fantasies. He’d agreed to work at the bar for the money, but he can’t deny to himself that he began to enjoy going to work for the company. Unknowingly to the bartender, Grillby had become his rock. Sans is smart. He says so many things to Papyrus, things to confuse and pull him in so many directions. Casual conversations with Grillby about anything serve as a reminder—this is how monsters are supposed to interact and speak with one another. Grillby is always so understanding. Whenever Papyrus had difficulties mastering a new task, Grillby never yelled, never insulted or struck him. He walked Papyrus through the steps again until he understood, and when Papyrus was successful, Grillby even praised him. Each compliment sent a happy, warm pulse to his soul.

Even now, he can’t pinpoint what he feels for Grillby. Affection, yes. Fondness. Gratitude. Grillby is closest thing Papyrus has to a friend, certainly.

But…love?

He loves his brother.

It doesn’t matter what Sans has done, what he’ll do in the future. Sans is family, he’ll always love him. Papyrus doesn’t know if he has enough in him to love another.

~*~

“I think it’s time you went back to work,” Sans says to him, after his phone alarm wakes the both of them up.

“If that’s what you want me to do.”

It’s three days after Sans’ punishment and he’s still sore, but the pain is more manageable now. With a cheap healing tonic from the General Store, and some green magic, Papyrus was able to mend the injured area. He can walk normally now without wincing.

Sans nods. “Get ready and wait downstairs.”

Papyrus leaves Sans’ bedroom and enters his own. He spares a moment to pet and feed the dog, before getting dressed in his work uniform and then heading downstairs. Minutes later, there’s a sharp snap of magic and Sans is beside him. Papyrus jumps. Despite the fact that Sans has used his magic to teleport for many years now, he’s never gotten used to it.

“So I was thinkin’. And I don’t think you’re real sorry yet for what you did.”

“Sans, that’s not true. I—”

“Yer sorry you got caught, is all.” Sans presses his hand to Papyrus’ chest. “But don’t worry. I’ve thought of a more suitable punishment.”

Sans’ blue magic holds Papyrus still and heavy as he slips his hand beneath Papyrus’ shirt. Papyrus gasps as Sans’ hand closes around his soul.

“Brother,  _don’t_.” He pleads. A monster’s soul is their most private, fragile aspect of themselves. Surely Sans wouldn’t…

With a quick tug, Sans pulls his soul free. His soul strains to return to its natural place in the center of his chest, like a magnet gravitating to iron.

His soul is pulled out into the open. A small thing, pulsing quickly in Sans’ secure grip.

“Oh.” Papyrus’ voice is weak. A layer of fog has descended upon his mind, his body. His thoughts are sluggish. He feels like he’s floating and sinking at the same time. He should be afraid, but all he feels is a cold, encompassing numbness.

“I’ll be holding onto this today.” Sans’ voice is distant, like it’s echoing down a long tunnel. “Now get goin’.”

Papyrus nods dumbly once he registers what Sans says, and fumbles his way out the door.

Snowdin’s chill cuts like a knife, but Papyrus can’t be moved to mind. Weaving footsteps take him to the front door of the bar. His hand slides off the doorknob several times before he’s able to muster the dexterity to turn it.

Sans’ alarm was set early for his own job; Grillby’s the only one in the bar at this hour.

“Papyrus?” The bartender sets down the mug of coffee in his hands and crosses over to him.

“I’m s-sorry I’ve been out so long.” Is he slurring his words? They stretch slowly, then jumble together. “I haven’t been feeling well.”

“Are you sick?” Grillby asks. Papyrus blinks up at him. Sick? Is that what he said he was? Grillby doesn’t look mad at him, not at all. Is he forgiven for leaving the other day?

Warmth. The back of Grillby’s hand is pressed to his forehead. Papyrus leans into the soothing touch.

“No temperature…” Grillby’s mouth quirks. “At least, I don’t think so.”

“I want to work.” Papyrus insists, as Grillby’s hand slips away. Sans wants him to work.

“Okay. Prep work’s done for now. Just have some coffee with me until the customers start coming in.”

Grillby pours out another mug, adding a generous helping of milk and sugar before pushing it into his hands. Papyrus raises it to his mouth and sips. Hot, but the heat evaporates quickly. It’s not enough to warm him.

In time, customers trickle in for early lunches. Papyrus retreats to the kitchen. Grillby assigns him small duties at first (Papyrus should be mad his boss is babying him, he can handle himself) before slowly integrating more of his usual tasks.

Papyrus sets a basket of French fries into the fryer. The vat of oil hisses and spits. The faint sounds of laughter and barking can be heard from the bar.

There’s a sudden jolt, and the chill is gone. Papyrus gasps, sways, and barely keeps his balance by gripping the counter. He feels close to himself again, the shroud lifted. Not completely whole—there’s an ever-present ache in his chest—but, better.

He straightens up as the door swishes open.

“When’d you put the fries in?” Grillby’s looking down at his list of orders.

“Just now.”

Grillby nods to himself. Papyrus watches him prepare three burgers. He sets them on plates, leaving plenty of space for the sides. Grillby glances his way.

“Would you mind delivering these orders when the fries are ready?”

Papyrus nearly refuses, but nods instead. Now that Sans has found out the truth, there’s hardly a reason to keep him hidden back here when he could be helping.

“Thank you.” Grillby says, before he heads back to his customers.

Papyrus waits patiently for the fryer to finish its work. He repositions the plates so the burgers are all on the opposite side of him. He recognizes the first two orders as belonging to two of the regulars. Most monsters are predictable, always ordering the same things. A stab of panic shoots down his spine as he eyes the last burger. He lifts the top bun to check the ingredients and confirms—it’s Sans’ order. Sans is here. Is that why he feels less off-kilter? Because his soul is close by? Or perhaps Sans removed his blue magic, that would explain it. But if Sans removed the magic, is he planning something?

He startles as the fryer alarm beeps. Idiot. Overreacting over nothing. After removing the fries from the oil, he parses out servings onto the plates. He balances the food on a tray, and enters the bar.

There’s surprised murmurs from the gathered group. None of them knew Papyrus worked here. Congratulatory words are shouted; Papyrus nods and smiles. Hopkins winks at him as he passes by her.

“That uniform looks cute on you, hun!” She calls at his back.

Flustered by all the attention, Papyrus does his best to block it all out. He sets down Greymane’s and Scarlet’s lunches before them.

All that’s left is Sans’ order. Grillby is watching him from across the bar; he’d deliver it to Sans if Papyrus asked. Papyrus doesn’t ask.

Sans isn’t sitting at his stool. Today, he’s in one of the green vinyl booths, one closest to the entrance. Away from the crowd. As Papyrus nears him, there’s a sudden stab of pressure at his soul. With a gasp, he sets Sans’ plate down harder than he intended.

Sans grabs a fry, and pops it in his mouth, chewing with his mouth open. His free hand remains hidden below the booth table. His thumb starts massaging circles onto Papyrus’ soul; he can feel the stimulation himself even though they’re separated.

“Sans, what are you doing?” Papyrus whispers, horrified.

“Hmm, you know what?” Sans twirls a fry in his hand. “While I’m here, why don’t I get one of those new milkshakes. I’ve heard great things about ‘em.”

“Oka- _Ah_!” Papyrus clenches his teeth shut as Sans presses down harder. “Okay.” He whimpers. “What flavor?”

“Why don’t you surprise me?”

Papyrus collects the serving tray and heads back into the kitchen. Grillby usually leaves the prep work of cold foods to him (it’s nice to be needed) so he’s able to assemble the supplies for a basic vanilla shake in short order.

The insistent touch of Sans’ fingers on his soul is…undeniably pleasant. His brother is rarely so gentle, and his touch seems to radiate throughout Papyrus’ entire body, like every inch of him is being lovingly caressed.

His body is reacting. There’s a flush to his face, ever deepening. Magic gathers at his pelvis. He squeezes his legs together and thinks of the worst things possible, willing the arousal to abate.

With jittery hands, he pours the finished shake into a glass and goes to deliver it to Sans.

His brother’s grin is wide and guileless as he takes a first sip of the shake.

“Mmm.” Sans hums approvingly. “I’ll be damned. Looks like Grillby managed to teach you something after all.”

At a nearby table, the dogs’ noses are twitching. They’re looking around, confused. Can they smell his arousal? It’s only a matter of time before they pinpoint where the scent of excitement is coming from. Before they discover how disgusting Papyrus is.

He seeks refuge in the break room. The clamor of the bar is a dull murmur this far away. He fumbles at the radio controls until a big band song starts to play, masking the distant noises entirely. Papyrus tries his best to focus on the music, but he can’t ignore the throbbing ache of his pelvis.

He flashes a guilty look towards the door that leads to the kitchen. His hand inches down before finally pressing to the crotch of his pants. Papyrus muffles his moan into the couch. The constant stimulation of his soul has left him achingly sensitive.

He rubs, bucking into his hand. It won’t take too much more, not when he’s like this—

There’s a sharp pinch on his soul. Papyrus yelps at the unexpected harsh sensation. After a moment, the strokes to his soul begin again.

Tears of frustration prick his eyes. Is Sans not going to let him ease the pressure off, even a little?

It’s okay. He can do this. He just has to make it through his shift for the day. Just a few hours more and this horrible day will be behind him.

After switching off the radio, he returns to the kitchen, and splashes water from the dishwashing sink on his face to cool himself off. He then busies himself scrubbing at dirty dishes in the sink.

He’s throwing a handful of food residue into the trash when Grillby ducks in. There’s no pad of paper in his hand; he came back just to check on Papyrus.

Does Sans feel the leap of happiness in his soul at that thought?

“Papyrus, about the other day.” Grillby scratches the back of his neck. He clears his throat with a crackling sound. “I just wanted you to know that my…feelings for you have no bearing at all on your employment here. I don’t want you to feel guilty or worried for saying no to me. You’re a great employee and I wouldn’t want anyone else. And I’ll do my best not to be, well. Awkward about it. I want you to feel comfortable here.”

“…Okay.” Papyrus manages.

There’s a part of him that wants to tell Grillby the truth. He’s not—not in love, but. There’s no denying he feels something when their hands brush accidentally. Papyrus squashes that part of him. It’d just lead to further complications, and it wouldn’t be fair to Grillby. Whatever he thinks Papyrus is, he’s wrong.

“I wanted to tell you this when you came in, but frankly I was so surprised to see you it slipped my mind.” Grillby inclines his head towards the door. “Come talk with Hopkins? She’s been asking for you all day.”

Papyrus is loath to face the crowd of monsters in the bar, but Grillby sounds beleaguered. Spending time with a patron is the least he can do.

Sure enough, Hopkins perks up when Papyrus joins Grillby behind the bar. Grillby continues to clear tables and serve drinks, while Papyrus is on Hopkins-duty. Her flattery of his uniform turns to random, continuous chatter about everything and anything going on in her life.

Every now and then Papyrus glances over to his brother’s booth. Sans seems to be eating his meal with a deliberate slowness. Monsters come and go, but he remains. His milkshake has melted into a puddle at the base of his glass, but every minute or so he takes a small sip.

Papyrus is laughing quietly at something Hopkins says when the pressure on his soul increases. The strokes grow firmer—is he using both hands, now? Papyrus’ legs feel weak.

He hunches over the bar counter. Suppresses the moans trying to slip from his mouth with his hand.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” Hopkins squints up at him. “You drinking on the job? You sick?”

“Papyrus?”

Oh, no. Grillby has noticed his predicament. Papyrus presses close to the bar counter, not wanting the glow of his magic to give anything away.

“You’re flushed,” Grillby scowls with concern. “You’re burning up!”

His voice carries; people are turning to see what the fuss is about.

“Stop it,” Papyrus hisses. Not in front of _everyone_. They’re all looking at him. “It’s not a big deal.”

He sinks into a ball. Grillby crouches beside him, a steadying hand on Papyrus’ shoulder.

“Do you need water? Can you understand me?”

“Don’t look at me,” Papyrus gasps.

He pushes at Grillby’s chest, to get him away, but the bartender won’t budge. Hysteria is building inside him. Grillby is trying to help, but there’s nothing he can do. He’s just making Papyrus more agitated and anxious. He’s coiled, ready to burst but _Sans won’t let him_.

“Papyrus, you’re seriously sick. Let me take you to the couch. I’ll call a healer and have them come look at you.”

“No,” Papyrus groans, as Grillby hauls him back upright. Papyrus grips Grillby’s shoulders, arching up. He wants to press against Grillby completely, grind on him until this ache inside him is gone. He also wants to disappear through the floor. Everyone’s watching this embarrassing spectacle. Soon it’ll be all over town, how weird Papyrus freaked out over nothing. Hot tears of humiliation well up, and he buries his face in Grillby’s shoulder. He just wants to go home.

“I’ll take him from here.” Sans’ voice cuts through the concerned clamor. He’s come up to them, hands in his pockets.

Grillby’s hand stays on Papyrus’ shoulder a moment longer before it slides away.

“Don’t come back until you feel better, alright? Take your time.”

Papyrus nods tiredly. Sans grabs his arm and they fall back, landing on Sans’ mattress. Sans pulls out Papyrus’ soul from his jacket pocket, cradling it in his hand. He raises it to his mouth and nips the corner.

It’s what he needed; with a scream, Papyrus bucks up, climaxing. A wet spot seeps into his underwear. Magic spurts from the surface of his soul, splashing onto Sans’ face.

“Such a mess.” Sans wipes his mouth with the sleeve of his hoodie, smearing Papyrus’ release on the fabric. Papyrus’ soul looks diminished, limp. But Sans still doesn’t return it to his chest.

“You know, I felt it.” Papyrus, dazed, can barely move his head to look over at Sans. “Whenever Grillbz talked to ya, your soul nearly leaped out of my hand.” Maddeningly, Sans starts thumbing his soul again. “I always knew you were thick, but this is a new low, even for you.”

Papyrus flinches as Sans comes closer; his brother plants a kiss on his temple.

“You think Grillby gives a damn about you? He’s just looking for a quick fuck.” Sans grabs Papyrus by the chin, forcing him to meet Sans’ eyes. “If that’s what you’re looking for I could certainly arrange it. I could set up a room in some New Home dive. 50G for a blowjob. 100G to cum inside. Pretty face like yours, there’d be clients out the door. Is that what you want?”

Papyrus turns his face away. He can see his soul beating frantically in Sans’ hand. “Brother, you’re—you’re scaring me.”

“Am I?” Sans’ hand slips beneath Papyrus’ shirt. His fingers uncurl, and Papyrus’ soul is released. It snaps back into its rightful place. A breathy sigh slips out of Papyrus’ mouth. Finally, the world is restored to him.

Sans strokes his cheek. “No one cares about you, Papyrus. No one. You should be thankful that I put up with you, because no one else would.”

His lesson imparted, Sans rolls onto his back and pulls out his phone. He’s done with Papyrus for the moment. He taps away, texting his friends and skimming the latest article on thermonuclear physics.

Papyrus lays beside him, passive, until Sans grows bored and sleepy. He flings his arm around Papyrus, and in moments he’s snoring loudly.

Papyrus looks down at his brother’s slumbering face. In repose, his brother’s features are loose, open. Almost kind.

He wishes they could go back to months ago, when the worst Sans ever did was ignore him. Or years ago, when he’d looked at Papyrus like he was the most special person in the world.

What had he done wrong to make Sans hate him so much?

Carefully, he eases his way out of Sans’ hold. His brother is a heavy sleeper. He doesn’t so much as twitch as Papyrus slips from the room.

The dog yips a hello as Papyrus steps into his own bedroom.

“Hush.” Papyrus whispers, putting a finger to his mouth. He hasn’t fully planned this, he doesn’t know what to grab. He stuffs some clothes in a plastic shopping bag, and puts them all in his inventory. The dog’s items go in next; its bag of food, bowls, and toys. He picks up the dog next. Technically living things can be placed in inventories (the magical extradimensional storage area that all monsters are born with) for a short time, but he’d rather not chance it. There’s an old scarf near the back of his closet; he swaddles the dog in it like a blanket.

He opens his door quietly, poking his head into the hallway. No sign of Sans. He walks lightly down the stairs, wincing when he hits the one that always creaks. He glances back upstairs, but there’s no movement from Sans’ room. Letting out a sigh of relief, Papyrus leaves out the front door.

~*~

“Papyrus?” He’s awoken by someone calling his name, a light touch on his shoulder. He’d fallen asleep on the couch. His dog is curled atop his chest, snuffling snores drifting out from it.

Grillby is looking at him with bemusement. Papyrus had let himself into the back room of the bar the night before, with the key he’d been given a week or so into his employment.

“What are you doing here?” Grillby asks.

“Mr. Grillby.” Papyrus swallows. “Do you think I could stay with you for a while?”


	4. If I Didn't Care

“What are you doing here?” Grillby asks again.

Papyrus looks awful, and that’s putting it kindly. Despite the fact that Grillby just woke him up, he looks like he hasn’t slept in days, his eye sockets creased with weariness, his face drawn tight with strain.

“Are you still sick? Does Sans know you’re here?”

Papyrus grabs Grillby’s shirt. The dog is jostled and slides off Papyrus. It yawns before looking up at Grillby with curiosity.

“Don’t call him. I can’t, I just, I need some time apart from him. Please. Please don’t—”

“I won’t call him.” Grillby assures Papyrus.

He covers Papyrus’ hand with his own, giving it a comforting squeeze. He’s dying to know what happened—had they fought? If so, over what? But Papyrus looks like he’s barely keeping himself composed. Grillby doesn’t want to push him off the edge.

“Can I stay with you? I won’t get in your way. I’ll, I’ll clean, and cook, and w-whatever you want.”

“Papyrus…”

Papyrus takes Grillby’s hand and guides it beneath his loose shirt.

“Or do you want this?” He can feel the shallow heave of Papyrus’ ribs. The bones are thin and brittle, like he could grab one and it’d snap off. “I’ll do whatever you want.”

Grillby yanks his hand away.

“What kind of a monster do you think I am?”

Grillby flares, his body crackling as it expands. He scorches the ceiling. Papyrus works with him, Papyrus knows him, why would he ever think Grillby would force him to do such a thing?

“Fuck, Papyrus.”

He doesn’t know what to do. Grillby’s not equipped to deal with Papyrus’ bundle of issues.

“Look. You can stay. But I don’t want you to feel like you have to do anything, okay? You don’t have to do…that. We’re _friends_ , Papyrus. We help each other.”

“Thank you.” Papyrus whispers, soft.

“Right.” Grillby cards a hand through his flames, smoothing them down into a more compact shape. “Why don’t I take you to my place, then, before I set up for work.”

Papyrus picks himself up off the couch—very gingerly, Grillby notes with unease—and the dog hops off the couch to follow him. He’s just in a thin t-shirt and jeans. It’s not a long walk to his house, but still Grillby shrugs off his jacket—a brown leather bomber jacket he’d found in a broken armoire in the Dump.

“Here.” He holds out the jacket. He flashes a wry smile. “I can keep myself warm, believe me.”

Papyrus looks so fragile. Like one puff of frigid air would blow him away. The jacket swamps him, and the sight is admittedly cute. Papyrus rolls up the cuffs to his wrists.

Something possessive stirs within Grillby at the sight of Papyrus in _his_ jacket, but he quashes it down. He’s not going to pressure Papyrus into anything, and he doesn’t plan to unintentionally hint at it either with a longing stare. It’s the last thing Papyrus needs right now.

Once Papyrus zips up the bomber jacket and gathers his dog in his arms, they leave the bar. Grillby leads Papyrus further into town, the opposite direction of the skeleton brothers’ house. He’s glad for the early hour; no one is around to see them, and to potentially mention their trip to Sans.

The dog wiggles out of Papyrus’ arms and plops into the snow. They’ve had heavy snowfall lately; the dog is up to its nose in white powder. Unbothered, the dog tunnels its way through the snow.

“Is it okay like that?” Grillby watches its progress with bemusement. A dog-shaped outline is left in its wake as it plows on. The cast on its leg doesn’t seem to slow it much.

“The dogged dog lets nothing get in its way.” And Grillby sees the first hint of a real smile from Papyrus this morning.

“What happened to its leg?” Papyrus had never told him his beloved dog was injured. Odd for him to not mention it, at least.

“Oh, you know.” Papyrus’ laughter is forced. “It was my fault. I, um, I took him to the Dump. He got up too high on an unsteady pile and fell. I was…I was really lucky it wasn’t worse. He’s a good dog.”

Papyrus’ eye lights flicker from one thing to the next, never staying still. Grillby gets the sense he’s being fed a story, but he lets it go for now.

Grillby’s one-story house is nestled between the Rocks and Bearnard. Both are quiet neighbors, though sometimes the Rock family brings over extra sand cakes for him.

“This is it,” Grillby says, perhaps unnecessarily as he lets his guest inside.

As Papyrus looks around, Grillby feels the urge to clean. His home is very much a bachelor pad, a pig sty. He spends most of his time at the restaurant, so his house has faced a long life of neglect.

“Sorry about the mess.” He certainly hadn’t been expecting company.

Papyrus shakes his head. “It’s fine. You…Sans’ room is worse.”

He grimaces.

Grillby laughs. “I can imagine.”

The dog trots inside, its tail a wagging blur. The dog positions itself, hunching down. Papyrus reaches for it, hands up.

“Don’t—!”

The dog shakes, splashing slush over the entryway. It gets in two shakes before Papyrus grabs it to hold it still.

“Wait.” Papyrus scolds it. “Let me find you a towel first.”

“No need.”

Grillby crouches down beside them. He holds his palm out for the dog. It sniffs his hand, before going in for a lick. Now that he’s been approved, Grillby rakes his hand through the dog’s fur. The heat of his hand steams the dog’s fur. Curls of vapor rise in the air. After a few pats, the dog is dry again.

Papyrus releases it, and it bounds further into the house, making excited laps in and out of the rooms.

“I need to open up the bar.” Grillby shoves a pile of clothes off the couch to make space for his guest. “Do you need me to bring anything back?”

“No, thank you.”

Papyrus looks so comfortable curled into his jacket. Grillby grabs a spare black coat from the clothes heap so Papyrus doesn’t feel obligated to return the bomber jacket.

“Make yourself at home. There’s food in the fridge if you get hungry.”

Papyrus settles into the couch. Already about to doze, his sockets struggling to stay open.

Grillby gives the dog a few scratches behind its ears before he heads back to work.

~*~

Three days later, Sans shows up at the bar.

He waves to the other regulars with a casual air, but there’s an unsteady glint to his eyes when he orders a drink.

“So, Grillbz.” Sans starts in without preamble after his third shot. “Ya haven’t seen my bro around here lately, have you?”

“I assumed he was still home recovering from his illness.”

“His—? No, no. He was over that. He didn’t even come in to grab a check? Nothin?”

Sans’ stare bores into him, all the way down to his soul. Grillby’s face remains impassive, betraying nothing.

“I really haven’t seen him, Sans. Why don’t you ask the guard?”

The dog pack sit just tables away from them.

“Eh, it’s not that big a deal. Kind of a family issue, you know. My bro and I, we had a disagreement, is all. He just left because he had to blow off some steam. Guess he was full of more hot air than I thought.”

“You haven’t checked with his friends?”

Sans barks a laugh at the idea. “Good one.”

Grillby frowns. Even when Sans is trying to be concerned, he can’t help but get in a jibe at his brother.

Sans rolls the empty shot glass between his hands. “Listen, Grillbz. I know my relationship with Papyrus isn’t all sunshine and daises. The whole damn town knows it. But I…I care about him, you know? It was just a stupid fight. And Papyrus, he doesn’t know much of anything. He doesn’t know how to take care of himself out there.”

“I’ll let you know if I see him.”

Sans scrutinizes him, still looking for something Grillby won’t give.

“Ok.”

Sans slides two gold coins across the counter.

“Let me know if anything pops up.” Sans says, and then he’s gone.

~*~

Grillby returns home well before midnight on Sunday, closing the bar down much earlier in the evening than usual. He’s gotten into the habit of shortening his hours lately; he has something to come home to, now.

Grillby eases off his old boots, setting them neatly by the front door.

Papyrus was incapable of sitting idle, and in the course of a few days, Grillby’s trash pit of a home became pristine. His laundry was washed, folded, put away. Mugs Grillby forgot he owned now sit in an orderly line in his kitchen cabinet. Grillby had thanked Papyrus, with a touch of embarrassment that he needed to be picked up after at all. Papyrus had brightened up at the praise, as luminous as the flowers of Waterfall.

“I’m home.” Grillby calls out.

An excited yip is all the warning he gets before Papyrus’ overexuberant dog barrels into him. The dog rises on its haunches, sniffing at Grillby’s pocket. It smells the treat inside and stuffs its muzzle into the pocket.

“Hold on.” Grillby nudges the dog back a fraction so he can grab the bone-shaped treat. The dog snatches it from his hand almost instantaneously and devours it. Grillby keeps a jar of dog treats at the bar for his canine customers. Now, if he doesn’t bring one home every evening, the dog watches him all night with mournful, betrayed eyes.

The dog sniffs around him, and susses out that Grillby has no other treats hidden away, before it darts into the hallway. Grillby follows it into the kitchen.

Papyrus’ back is to him. He hums beneath his breath as he puts something into the oven.

“Hello, Grillby.”

Papyrus smiles, and Grillby’s soul skips a beat. The cooking apron Papyrus wears is simple, one of Grillby’s old ones. Unbidden, the image of Papyrus in a pink frilly apron—and nothing else—rises to mind.

Grillby swallows.

“I’m making us a cake!” Papyrus claps his hands together with delight. “I wanted it finished before you came home, but you’re here a little earlier than I expected.”

“Thank you. I’m sure it’ll be delicious.”

Grillby produces two to-go boxes from his inventory. The first few days he’d carried the takeout home in his arms. But then he was struck with the paranoid thought that Sans might be watching, and took to carrying them in his inventory instead.

The small kitchen table is cleared save for two placemats; Grillby sets the boxes out.

Papyrus slides into his customary seat after placing two sets of silverware on the table. For tonight’s meal, Grillby’s made them chicken parmesan. As always, Papyrus eats with relish and delight. But Grillby also can’t help but notice how Papyrus’ leg jiggles anxiously under the table.

“How was your day?” Grillby asks.

“Oh! I was um…mostly uneventful.”

“Mostly?”

“Well, of course the dog was very meddlesome.”

Papyrus looks past Grillby, towards the oven. He sets down his cutlery. One small bite is missing from his meal.

“I should check on dessert!”

And Papyrus is back in the kitchen. He sinks a toothpick into the cake and it comes out sticky with batter. Not even remotely close to finished.

“Papyrus.” Grillby joins him in the kitchen as he fumblingly returns the cake to the oven and cranks the heat. “Whatever the problem is, you can tell me. We’re…We’re friends. I just want to help you.”

“I’m sorry.” Papyrus sniffs, bowing his head. “Your phone rang today. And this girl, she started to leave a voicemail, but she sounded so worried about you, so I picked up the phone, and, um, you were invited to a Gyftmas party?”

“Fuku.” In all the excitement, he’d forgotten to get back to his niece with an answer.

“Right! Fuku. And she might have been, er, curious, as to why a stranger such as myself was answering her uncle’s phone. In his home. And I might have said that I…was living here? And because I said that, s-she might have assumed that, um, I was here in your house for amorous purposes.” Papyrus twists the hem of his shirt. “I wanted to c-correct her, but I wasn’t able to before she hung up.”

Ah. Now his family would expect him to show up with a new boyfriend to show off.

“I’ll call Fuku back later. Don’t worry about it. I’m not going anyway.”

Grillby steers Papyrus back to their dinner. The dog is halfway on Grillby’s chair, licking its chops. It backs off with a sulky look as Grillby reclaims his seat.

“Is there a reason you don’t want to go?”

Grillby pauses, a forkful of chicken parm to his mouth.

Papyrus hurries to explain himself. “She just sounded very concerned for you. She really missed you. I know it’s not my business, but…why don’t you want to see your family?”

Grillby sets down his fork.

“It’s complicated.” Grillby wants to leave it at that, but Papyrus is still looking at him expectantly. “I grew up in Hotland, with my parents, and sister.”

Most flame elementals are raised in Hotland. It’s safer for embers to grow up where they’re least at risk of being snuffed out.

“My family owns the lead stake in the MTT hotel and handle its management.”

He startles as eyes nearly pop out of Papyrus’ skull.

“ _The_ MTT hotel?” Papyrus squeaks. “Have you met M-Mettaton?”

“I left long before he started cropping up on TV. It used to be a regular hotel before Mettaton swooped in with the rebranding. He bought out most of the old investors and consolidated much of it, but my family continues to oversee the hotel.”

“Wowie.”

“But I didn’t want to stay in the family business. I parted from my parents on…unpleasant terms. Before I could apologize for my quick temper, they passed.”

“Oh.” Papyrus’ enthusiasm dims with his sympathy.

“It’s alright. It was a long time ago.” He’s made his peace with it, as much as he can. “But my sister never got over it. She never understood why I had to move. She was so confident I’d close up shop and come crawling back. Or that I’d snuff out in the cold.”

“That’s awful.” Papyrus reaches across the table and takes Grillby’s hand in his own. “For what it is worth, I’m glad you’re here. Though the grease of your food might stick to my ribs, your establishment brings the town together. You’ve given the town a warm, happy place to unwind with their friends.”

“That’s…” Grillby swallows past the lump of emotion in his throat. He wants to kiss Papyrus for that. “That’s kind of you to say.”

He’s gained many friends since his move to Snowdin, but no one has ever so plainly affirmed that he made the right choice. That it wasn’t all for nothing. He didn’t throw away his life.

“I think you should go. To the Gyftmas party, I mean.”

Papyrus looks so hopeful. Grillby doesn’t have the heart to disappoint him.

“Alright. I’ll give it a shot.”

“Great! You won’t regret this, Grillby. Siblings shouldn’t fight.” A bitter smile twists his face. “I know that more than anyone.”

“I’ve always been curious, Papyrus. What is the deal with you and Sans? Why is your relationship so…” Grillby gestures in the air. “Strained.”

Papyrus withdraws, his hand slipping free from Grillby’s. But rather than changing the subject or finding something to fidget with, he does answer.

“I don’t know. I _wish_ I knew. Sans, he, he used to be the best. Really, the best. And then he just changed.” Papyrus’ voice cracks. “I don’t know what I did—”

“Papyrus, stop. It’s Sans with the problem. Not you.”

“But—”

“You said it yourself. Sans changed. You didn’t make him into anything else. That’s all him.”

Papyrus looks away. He doesn’t believe him, and it breaks Grillby’s heart. But it doesn’t matter. He’ll shore up Papyrus’ confidence in himself as many times as he has to.

The smell of burnt chocolate wafts in from the kitchen. They realize their mistake simultaneously.

“The cake!”

The charred remains of the cake are salvaged from the oven. They slather icing on top. It doesn’t taste quite right, but they eat it anyway. Together.

~*~

Grillby’s thumb hovers over the call button on his cellphone. His flames steadily melt the snow around the garbage cans. Unless he wants wet, rancid garbage, he better make the call now.

He forces himself to dial. The phone rings once, and the call is picked up.

 _“Uncle Grillby?”_ She says his name slowly, as if making sure it’s actually him.

“Fuku.”

 _“You’re calling me? Are you falling down?”_ Fuku jokes, half-serious. _“Should I hoof it to Snowdin?”_

“Har-har.” Grillby leans back against the brick wall of his restaurant. “Tell your parents that I’ll be coming after all.”

There’s a happy squeal on the other end of the line.

_“Your boyfriend talked you into it, didn’t he?”_

“Fuku…” When did she get so sassy?

 _“I knew it! What’s he like? He sounded cute over the phone. What’s he look like? Send me a picture! No wait—no pictures! I want to be surprised when you come visit. He_ is _coming too, right?”_

“I’m not sure. I’ll have to ask.” Papyrus would love a tour of the hotel, that’s for sure. It would be a nice chance for him to get a break from Snowdin, too. A breath of fresh air. Not a literal one, of course; while the Snowdin air is crisp and clear, Hotland’s air is thick with the stench of sulfur.

_“I’ll tell Mom and Dad the good news. And Uncle Grillby?”_

“Yes?”

_“I’m really glad you’re coming.”_

She’s so heartfelt, it makes him sick with guilt. He resolves then and there to go next year, too.

So long as he and his sister survive this year.

The pep resurfaces in Fuku’s voice. _“I should get ready for class now. Be sure to tell your boyfriend I say hello~”_

Grillby realizes too late that he hadn’t corrected her earlier.

“He’s not my—”

Fuku giggles and hangs up. Grillby sighs. Telling his family the truth about Papyrus—just a friend, nothing more—is not a conversation he’s looking forward to at the dinner table, but it’s seeming more and more likely.

~*~

“Grillby! Excellent timing!”

He’s wearing Grillby’s bomber jacket again. He doesn’t need it; Grillby keeps the house warm for his guest. But here Papyrus is, wearing his jacket anyway.

Papyrus steers him to stand before a large net spread out over the living room carpet.

“What’s all this for?”

“I’ve been trying to catch that pernicious pup all day.” Papyrus explains. He looks worn out. “It’s time for its cast to be take off. But the dog won’t sit still long enough for me to remove it.”

Papyrus crouches down and wedges himself behind the couch.

“Now, call the dog!” Papyrus stage-whispers.

Ah, so he’s to be the bait, then. Amused, Grillby whistles for the dog. He brings the customary treat out of his pocket.

After a few minutes of calling for the dog, it pokes its head out of the bedroom, looking down the hallway.

“Come on, boy.” Grillby coaxes, waving the treat. He holds it over the net.

The dog pads forward with measured, careful steps. It wants the treat, but it’s wary.

“That’s it. Come on, you’re almost there.”

Its cast clunks on the floor as it comes over. Unable to resist the siren song of the dog treat.

The dog is just about to chomp down on the treat when the trap activates, pulling the dog up in the net. The dog whines and bites at the ropes, trying to break free.

“Grab him!” Papyrus shouts, scrambling out from his hiding place.

Grillby gathers the dog up in his arms. He pets its fur between the netting in an attempt to soothe it.

“I’ll try to be fast.” Papyrus summons a bone construct, the end of it sharpened to a fine point.

Grillby and Papyrus reposition the squirming canine until the animal’s cast-covered leg is poked through a hole in the net. Papyrus slips the bone construct between the dog’s leg and the cast with great care. He flinches as the dog whimpers, but continues on. The cast is made of tough stuff. Though the dog’s leg is small, it still takes time to saw through. The dog doesn’t make it easy, trying to twist away and gnawing at Grillby’s hands.

Both monsters sigh with relief once the last of the cast is broken off. Beneath it, the dog’s fur is matted, its leg smaller than the other three, but the bone straight.

As soon as the dog is set on the floor it wriggles free of its trappings. It takes a few cautious steps, adjusting to the new balance of its limbs.

Grillby pulls out the treat again. “Here. A reward for your…amazing cooperation.”

“Nyeh heh heh.” Papyrus laughs.

The dog snaps up the threat, then licks Grillby’s hand after, as if to say the pet bears him no ill will for restraining it while Papyrus removed the cast.

The dog then returns to its master. Papyrus runs his hand through the smooth fur.

“Thank you, Grillby. I’d been trying to remove the cast for hours.”

“Don’t mention it.” Grillby gathers up the net. “Was this the first trap you’ve built?”

“Oh, um. Yes? It was a bit crude—”

“You should be proud of yourself. It was responsive as soon as the dog touched it. When I was in school I struggled with a simple box trap. For your trap to work successfully on your first try…I think you really have a talent for traps and puzzles. You should build more.”

“I don’t know…”

“Just think about it.”

Grillby can certainly imagine it. Papyrus, bright-eyed, carrying crafting materials home from the Dump. Designing twenty different puzzle possibilities and explaining them all to Grillby in animated detail, before he settles on one to do first. This is what he wants for Papyrus, a life where he’s happy, where his innate enthusiasm isn’t drained by stress and exhaustion. Where their life together in the same home isn’t a temporary thing.

I love you, he wants to say to the skeleton in front of him.

“What would you like for dinner?” He asks, instead.

~*~

Sans doesn’t look well.

Grillby can tell immediately, as can the bar patrons. His jokes land flat, and his smile is too wide, eerie. When Sans heaves himself onto his usual barstool, Grillby catches sight of the dark shadows beneath his sockets.

“Your usual?” Grillby asks.

Sans dismisses the suggestion with a wave of his hand.

“Not in the mood. Scotch’s fine.”

Grillby frowns. Scotch is for Sans’ bad nights. The nights he sits and glares at nothing and drinks himself into unconsciousness. The nights Papyrus would be forced to pick him up.

“Sans, I don’t think you should be drinking right now.”

“Is this about the tab? I’m good for it. In fact, here.” Sans sets down a heavy sack of gold and pushes it towards Grillby.

“It’s not about the money.” Grillby pushes the coin purse back over to him. “I think you should go home and get some rest.”

“You’re cutting me off?” Sans’ loud, angry tone cuts through the mellow chatter of the bar. No one stares at Sans openly, but conversation peters out. People are listening in, and stealing glances.

“This isn’t out of spite. You’re distraught, I understand that. Your brother hasn’t been home for over two weeks. If you want to stay, and be with your friends, I won’t stop you. I think it’d be good for you. But I won’t serve you alcohol when you’re in this frame of mind.”

“Fine.” Sans swipes the sack of coins and stuffs it away in his pocket. “I can tell when I’m not wanted.”

There’s a sharp crack of magic, and Sans’ seat is empty.

A heavy, awkward silence lingers in his wake.

“Grillby.” Dogaressa waves him over to their table. Her face is creased with concern. “Sans’ brother is missing?”

Even now, Papyrus is just Sans’ brother.

“Didn’t even notice.” Doggo admits, shamefaced, setting down his cards.

“We’ll start patrols in the woods to look for him.” Dogamy says.

“We’ll let the Captain know.” Dogaressa adds. “She’ll get the guards in the other districts to start looking, too. We’ll find him.”

Greater and Lesser Dog bay their agreement.

Papyrus would be touched to hear them all volunteer.

“I’m sure Sans will appreciate the help.”

He can’t tell them the truth, not yet. But the dogs will be persistent in sniffing out every lead. Things can’t stay as they are now. Grillby has enjoyed having Papyrus to come home to, far more than he should. But now things have to change.

~*~

Grillby has to believe he’s doing the right thing. After a deep steadying breath, he lets himself into his house.

“Papyrus?” He calls.

“Grillby.” Papyrus enters the living room, rubbing sleep from his eyes. He’d been taking a nap, evidently. “You’re home early—”

Papyrus stops cold.

Sans steps into the house, edging past Grillby.

“Hey bro.”


	5. The Boogeyman

It’s only a handful of days before they’re to leave Snowdin behind to visit Grillby’s family in Hotland. Papyrus has eyed the calendar hanging in Grillby’s kitchen with nervous anticipation. Grillby is taking a huge step in meeting with his family again. Papyrus is only going along for the trip as Grillby’s friend, but still. He has to make an excellent first impression on them. He can’t be his usual bumbling self and embarrass Grillby in front of his estranged family. What if he says something dumb, and it ruins Grillby’s chances for reconciliation? Papyrus had assured Grillby before that he’d be fine staying behind in Snowdin, but Grillby was adamant in bringing Papyrus along. And he’s happy Grillby insisted, despite his nerves. Papyrus can’t deny the selfish bit of him that’s excited to travel and gaze upon the illustrious MTT hotel up close.

Once he’s run through his daily ritual of cleaning Grillby’s home, Papyrus settles down at the dining room table to do some reading. The dog curls up on his feet for a nap. Papyrus is borrowing an old textbook of Grillby’s, on rudimentary puzzles and traps. Grillby had been so pleased by Papyrus’ rope trap. Maybe, if he builds something more elaborate, Grillby will praise him again…

He flushes. It’s stupid, wanting Grillby to say nice things about him after he’s already rejected his confession. He doesn’t deserve to want it. But it’s still how he feels.

Papyrus reads for nearly an hour, until he finds himself smothering a yawn in his hand. The house is so cozy, and warm. He marks his page and closes the textbook before he pillows his head in his arms. He should nap on the couch, he’ll get a stiff neck like this. But the dog is still resting on his feet. He can’t move until the dog does, it’s only polite.

It only takes a moment for him to drift off.

~*~

Papyrus is roused from his impromptu nap by the sound of the front door unlocking. Rubbing his eyes, Papyrus heads for the front door, the dog at his heels.

“Grillby. You’re here early—”

The rest of his greeting dies in his throat.

Sans.

His brother squeezes around Grillby in the threshold. A reticent look upon his face.

“Hey, bro.”

He sounds sheepish. Sorry. Repentant. It’s all a show put on for Grillby’s sake, surely. Right? Sans has to be furious with him. But…he sounds so wretched as he steps closer, hands outstretched for a hug.

(Hands reaching to rip out his soul, to freeze it with magic, to suffocate his feelings.)

“Bro, come home.” Sans pleads. “We gotta talk this through.”

Grillby is watching the pair of them, quietly. Why? Why did he do this? Why would he—he had _begged_ Grillby not to tell. He’d offered him everything. Had he exhausted Grillby’s patience, loitering in his home for so long? No, Grilby is his friend, but then, _why_ …

The dog’s hackles raise. It barks, angrily, and lunges for Sans.

“No!”

Terrified, Papyrus snatches the dog up by its scruff and clutches it close. He can feel the vibration of its growls beneath his fingers.

“I—I need a minute.” Papyrus blurts. He turns on his heel, but not before he catches the black look that flashes across Sans’ face.

Papyrus retreats with his dog to Grillby’s bedroom, closing and locking the door behind him. His breaths come quick and fast, his thoughts racing faster than his soul.

He can’t go with his brother. Sans’ punishment for Papyrus’ flight will surely be unimaginably awful, considering what Papyrus endured at his hands for hiding his job from him.

Think. _Think_. He can’t stay, not anymore. Grillby won’t cast Sans out, he brought him here. He can’t go with Sans.

So he needs to leave. Now.

Papyrus rifles through his inventory. He still has his tip money socked away. It’ll be enough to pay for the ferry, and get him maybe a night or two in a motel, no more. But wait—Grillby gave him a keycard in preparation for their stay at the MTT hotel. They were supposed to stay there for a whole week. If he can reach Hotland, and get to the hotel, he can convince them change his room, and to let him in a few days ahead of schedule.

Papyrus hefts the dog up, staring it in its shiny black eyes.

“Sorry about this,” He murmurs, softly. “Just try to bear it for a few moments.”

He eases the dog into his inventory with a wince. He’s not comfortable keeping his pet trapped inside the confines of his magic for long, but he can’t risk the dog barking and alerting Sans or Grillby.

Papyrus throws back the curtain obscuring the window. It’s a good thing Grillby’s home is only one story tall. He fumbles with the latches, and pushes the window up. It fights him, the old glass stiff. Still, it goes. The cold air of the outside hits him in a blast.

Papyrus climbs through the open window, and starts running.

His dead sprint draws curious stares through the town—the rock child even calls out to him, concerned—but he ignores them all as he makes for the docks. He has to be fast. It won’t take long for Sans’ patience to end, for Grillby to unlock the bedroom door with the master key, and discover the open window.

He encounters a small stroke of luck—the River Person is at the dock, waiting for passengers. Their hood turns to him as he skids to a stop before them.

“Tra la—”

“Hotland!” Papyrus presses two coins into their cold hands. “Please.”

The River Person falls silent. Papyrus looks behind him. Nothing but snow and trees.

The River Person accepts his payment, and the small boat shoves off. Soon Snowdin is left behind for the dark expanse of a cavern, a small flickering lantern at the boat’s bow the one pinprick of light. Now that they’re clear of Snowdin, Papyrus feels safe enough bringing out his dog again. It’s unharmed and unbothered by its experience in the magical storage area. It somehow found one of the toys Papyrus had stashed away in it, and squeaks the rubber ball between its teeth.

“Tra la la,” The River Person sings to themselves, their voice echoing in the still of the tunnel. Their hooded visage turns to look back at Papyrus. A chill creeps up his spine. “Child. Beware of the boogeyman who knows of the other world.”

Papyrus nods, pretending he understands. He’s too weary to ask questions.

The River Person speaks no more to him, just humming to themselves as their boat glides swiftly through the dark waters.

~*~

Grillby hates the ferry boat. Hates being stuck on a tiny scrap of flammable material, surrounded by inky, bottomless waters. But the train lines are unexpectedly down for the weekend for some much-needed rail construction, and hell if Grillby is walking from one corner of the underground to the other. Thus, Grillby resigns himself to a trip by boat.

He pays the toll, and the River Person carries him away. His mind wanders to the same topic he’d been fixated on the past three days.

Grillby regrets what he did. Something had to change, sure. It wasn’t right to have the royal guard wasting their resources searching for Papyrus when he wasn’t actually in any danger. But it is obvious to him now that he should have spoken with Papyrus before he brought Sans over. He should never have made the decision for him.

He’d thought he was helping them to repair their relationship, as Papyrus was doing to help him. He just wanted to repay the favor, and play mediator to the brothers as they worked through their issues. He couldn’t believe what had happened. Rather than speak with Sans, he had actually _left_. Had climbed out the window to get away. Sans had been so confused, so hurt.

But there’s something still nagging at Grillby. He can’t forget how the dog, usually so sweet and happy, had tried to tear Sans’ hand off. It’d been so protective of Papyrus. Worryingly so.

Grillby scrubs his eyes tiredly. The guards are looking for Papyrus, he reminds himself, not for the first time. The dogi even got the captain involved to broaden the spread of the search. Grillby had checked the forest himself the past three days, before work. He’d spoken with the leaders of the gyftrot herd, but they hadn’t seen any skeletons in their territory for weeks.

Grillby feels unmoored, a ball of sick anxiety ever-present in his core. It is so wrong for him to go off to a family Gyftmas party as Papyrus could be freezing to death in a snowbank, or lost amidst the muck of the Waterfall marshes, or—

“Beware, beware, if you care,” The River Person sing-songs. “Beware the boogeyman.”

The River Person continues to croon to themselves about something or other. Grillby lets the drone of their voice become background noise.

There’s no sense in worrying himself sick, he tells himself. He has to believe that guard will find Papyrus, or that he’ll come back on his own. He should’ve done more. He should’ve given Papyrus a cellphone, at least, so Grillby had some method to communicate with him.

There are a lot of things he should’ve done.

It’s a relief when he finally steps off the boat, and onto volcanic rock. His body feels comfortable, muscles relaxing. He breaths deep the smoggy air. The sight of small embers drifting in the air makes his magic sing. As much as he’s come to love Snowdin, he will always have an innate connection to Hotland.

The hotel is…different. He hasn’t been here in some years. He knows, logically, that some things have to change over time, but the sheer scale of the transformation takes him a good moment to wrap his head around. Before Mettaon, the hotel was mainly booked for tours of the Core, and for visiting relatives of the scientists who worked in the Lab. Several floors of the hotel were even leased out as long-term apartments for staff members and interns at the Lab. To reflect the clientele, the hotel had been of a stately, albeit simplistic design.

But the tours of the Core had ended years ago, as it grew too volatile for monsters to get close to it without being bundled in swaths of protective gear. And the royal scientist dismissed most of her staff. Now, the allure of this arid land is a seat in Mettaton’s audience, and the hotel reflects that. MTT is emblazoned in a flowing, golden font above the front door, punctuated on either side by images of the boxy robot himself. It’s all rather too ostentatious for Grillby’s taste, but he supposes he should be thankful to Mettaton for keeping traffic moving through the hotel.

Once inside, he has to force back a grimace at the new water fountain. The statue of Queen Toriel has been replaced with one of Mettaton. It’s too big for the space, and the pipes are not properly affixed; he can already spot damp patches in the surrounding carpet that he knows will steadily wreck both the carpeting and the flooring beneath it. He makes a note to alert his sister of this, later.

Grillby’s check-in is smooth, and he boards the elevator for the top floor; his sister Ashby and her family share one of the suites. In moments, he’s at their door. He’s awash with nostalgia—this had been his home too, years ago. Up here, not much has been changed under Mettaton’s control. He spies a small scrape in the paint on the wall beside the door. He brushes his thumb underneath it. It’s a remnant of when he’d accidentally dragged the stump of a Gyftmas tree against it in the narrow hall as a child. He’d been so afraid of Santa finding out what he’d done and taking away his presents, and begged his father not to tell. That year, he got a letter from Santa himself alongside his gifts, lecturing him on the importance of honesty.

Grillby steels himself, and knocks twice on the door. There’s not an instant response, and a part of him wants to just turn on his heel and leave. He banishes the childish impulse. It’s high time he finally sat down with his sister and _talked_.

The door’s thrown open, and a green blur launches at Grillby.

“Uncle Grillby!” Fuku squeezes him tightly around the middle.

“Hello, Fuku.” Grillby reciprocates the hug, albeit in a more restrained fashion.

Fuku ultimately loosens her death grip to smile up at him. Not counting the wisps smoking at the top of her head, Fuku comes all the way up to his shoulders.

“Look at you,” He says, throat feeling tight. “You’re taller than your mom was at your age.”

“Dad says I get it from him. I’m so glad you came!” She leans around him, searching. “Where’s your boyfriend?”

 “He’s just a friend, Fuku. And he…he couldn’t make it.”

“Aw! Not fair.” Fuku pouts. But then her grin turns sly. “Guess you’ll have to stop by again to show him off.”

“We’ll see,” Grillby says, noncommittally.

Fuku ushers him inside. Gyftmas decorations are hung around the house. Festoons of holly decorate the walls. An evergreen tree is propped up in one corner of the living room, twinkling with multicolored lights. Grillby pulls out the presents he bought for Fuku and her family and sets them beneath the tree for them to open Gyftmas day.

“Ah, Grillby.” Muzu, Ashby’s husband, greets him with a firm, if a little slimy, handshake. Muzu is a bipedal fire salamander, his skin a mottled blend of black and reddish orange. “It is good to see you again. You look well. How was your trip up?”

Grillby exchanges empty but safe pleasantries with Muzu regarding his travels. They gravitate towards the dinner table. The side courses are already set out, but covered to retain their heat. Five sets of silverware are set out; it seems Ashby did account for him—and for Papyrus—after all.

“Ashby’s in the kitchen, putting the last touches together on the chicken, I’d wager.” Muzu throws him a significant look. He points down the hall. “It’s right through there.”

“…I’ll go see if she needs any help.”

Like a man walking to his executioner, Grillby trudges into the kitchen. His breath catches at the sight of his sister. Her back’s to him, head bowed as she focuses on the oven.

It’s been…stars, it’s been over a decade, hasn’t it? He visited briefly after Fuku had been born, and at that time he’d mostly interacted with Muzu, Ashby too exhausted to stay awake, let alone speak with him.

A small egg timer chimes. Ashby silences it, and grabs the pan out of the oven. The smell of chicken and herbs wafts through the room.

Grillby approaches, looking over his sister’s shoulder. Roasted chicken, with lemon, garlic, and rosemary.

“It looks good.”

“I’m sure you could think of ten ways to make it better.” She sighs. “I burnt the bottom of it, I know that much.”

Ashby finally turns to look at him. She’s older, he abruptly realizes. Fuku has aged her. There are new creases around her eyes, and she’s small than he remembers, her fire more subdued. How much time have they lost with each other out of their stubbornness?

“It’s good to see you,” Grillby says, and he means it. He can hardly recall now the bitter words they’d spat at each other.

Time has softened Ashby as well, because she gives him a tentative smile as she says, “We’ve got a lot to catch up on, haven’t we?”

Grillby carries the chicken out into the dining room for her. They say a quick grace to the angel above, and then they start dishing out food—and stories. Fuku’s happy to tell Grillby all about her school experiences, her friends, the various clubs she’s participating in. Grillby in turn is prevailed upon to regale them with tales of Snowdin. He talks of the shenanigans his regulars get up to, speaks fondly of the lengths he and Papyrus went to to capture his dog.

As the hour draws late, and Fuku keeps trying to surreptitiously muffle her yawns, the young flame is sent to bed. She protests, of course. But Grillby assures her—after a glance at Ashby—that he’ll still be here in the morning. He’ll even cook breakfast.

Muzu excuses himself as well, giving the siblings time to catch up together. Ashby retrieves a bottle of spiced rum for the pair of them. It’d been their father’s favorite after a hard day. She pours out two generous shots for them.

“You know, Grillby,” Ashby breaks the companionable silence that’d fallen over them. “Our head chef is looking to make the move to New Home after the holidays. The position could be yours, if you want it.”

Grillby takes a measured sip of his drink. Hesitates for a moment too long.

Ashby’s expression twists. “Is it truly so terrible, the thought of being stuck with me?”

“Ashby, no, that’s not—” Grillby cuts himself off. Then starts again. “It has nothing to do with you, and everything to do with me. I…I _like_ living in Snowdin. I like the small, tight-knit community. I like the library with its misspelled sign, I like the little gift baskets my neighbors leave at my door every new year, I like…” Grillby swallows. Papyrus’ words of his importance echo in his mind. “I feel like, in Snowdin, I give people a place to be together. And I love being able to provide that for them. It’s not the same here. I’m too distant from it all. I…I couldn’t give up my bar for anything.”

There’s a long pause, and Ashby’s expression is such that he thinks he’s about to be thrown out. Then, a laugh spills out from her mouth, mirthless and sad.

“When you moved away, I was just so mad, you know? I was upset. I thought you were ungrateful for everything Mom and Dad did for us, that you left because you didn’t care about me.”

“Ashby—”

“Hold on. I’m not finished. That’s what I _thought_. And I just…I’m sorry. I thought I’d driven you away forever. So I never asked you to visit, because I was afraid you’d say no, and confirm that fear of mine. Fuku badgered me every year to invite you over. I’d always make some excuse.” Another strangled laugh escapes her. “It seems this year she’d had enough of my nonsense, and decided to take matters into her own hands.”

“I’m glad she did. Ashby, I really missed you. It was very hard, those first few years. Everyone in Snowdin was nice to me, but it was a distant niceness. So many times, I wanted to reach out to you. But then our parents passed, and I thought after that you wouldn’t want me around, because I wasn’t there for them at the end.”

“You couldn’t have known.”

“Still.”

“What a pair we make, huh?” Her flames crackle wildly with the tumult of her emotions.

Grillby can’t stand it a moment longer. He sits beside his sister, and hugs her fiercely. Ashby clings to him, just as tightly.

Finally, they’re beginning to heal.

~*~

Grillby polishes the counter of his bar. He’d left his family with a promise to coordinate a visit next month; they want to come down and tour Snowdin. He’s looking forward to it, but his spirits are dampened by one thing: Papyrus.

Stars, he wishes Papyrus had been there with him. He wishes Papyrus was here now in front of him. It is only thanks to Papyrus that he was able to reconcile with his sister. He wants more than anything to introduce Papyrus to his family, especially Fuku; it turns out that she’s another MTT fanatic.

But Papyrus is still missing. The dogs sniffed down every potential lead in the forest that stretched between Snowdin and the sealed door to Home, but they turned up nothing. If he fled all the way to New Home, it’s possible they’ll never find him if he doesn’t want to be found.

Grillby hasn’t seen Sans either, come to think of it. He hasn’t shown up at the bar once since Grillby brought him over to his house. He’s probably holed up in his home. Worrying.

Grillby still isn’t quite sure how he feels about Sans. It’s always been clear to him that Papyrus adores Sans. The origin of the tension between them has to come from the elder brother. He just can’t fathom _why_.

And then, how Papyrus’ dog had reacted. That time Papyrus had come into work with bruising along his mandible. But Sans had also been so concerned when Papyrus nearly collapsed from a fever at work. It’s unsettling, how it doesn’t quite add up. He feels like he’s missing something, some key piece to the puzzle that explains the mystery of the skeleton brothers.

After he closes up for the evening, Grillby finds himself at the front door of their home. He brought over a plate of dinner for Sans, in case he’s not taking proper care of himself in Papyrus’ absence.

The windows are dark. Grillby knocks on the door. He waits for a moment, but no one comes.

He knocks again, harder, and then the door creaks open. It’s unlocked. And had been left ever so slightly ajar.

Grillby pokes his head in.

“Sans?”

He finds the light switch on the wall and flicks it on.

The first thing he notices is there’s…nothing here. The living room is bare of furniture. Faint marks on the carpet are the only indication something was ever there. Grillby sets the takeout box down on the kitchen counter, and then climbs the stairs to the second floor. He checks both rooms upstairs, but they’re stripped bare, just as the living room had been.

Grillby returns downstairs, mind awhirl with thoughts. This doesn’t make any sense. Did Sans move? Why? Where would Sans even go? What if Papyrus comes back, to find he’s not here?

The empty house has no answers for him.

~*~

The hotel receptionist is obliging. There are single bed rooms available now, and she makes the adjustment for his week stay to start today. She hands him a new card for his new room.

Papyrus had opted for the lowest tier hotel room, and it’s still more extravagant than he could’ve dreamed. The room is done up in hues of gold, with hot pink accents here and there. The bathroom bar soap is sculpted in Mettaton’s image, the towels scented with MTT brand rose perfume.

If he’d been coming here with Grillby, he’d be beside himself with glee. Now, it’s impossible to muster the energy required for enthusiasm. He doesn’t even feel scared, anymore. Just detached, almost drifting away from his own body. Floating, like how he’d been when Sans had plucked his soul from his chest.

The dog, settled at one end of the bed, gnaws on the fringe of a rope toy. Papyrus picks up the notepad and pen the hotel left out for its guest, and starts jotting down ideas.

His keycard is only goof for the next week. He can’t stay longer and risk the hotel contacting Grillby—and besides, if they did, they’d charge Grillby for it, and that’s not fair at all to him. So he has seven days to find a job, either in Hotland or New Home. Once he secures a job, he may have to sleep on the streets or in shelters until he has enough saved up for a modest apartment for him and his dog. Papyrus lets himself imagine, for a moment, a job that’d pay him an advance of his salary, so he could get a place to live right away.

But it’s unlikely. He doesn’t have much past the general education the Snowdin library provides. No real talents or skills. But he can ask the receptionist about local libraries in Hotland. He can go to the closest one and make a résumé. He’s worked at Grillby’s for months, that has to count as a positive for him. He just has to hope employers don’t ask for references.

Papyrus’ magic gurgles. He flushes, looking down at his stomach. He sets the notepad aside. Now that he takes a moment to pause and assess his body’s needs, he realizes he _is_ feeling rather light-headed. Some food will not go amiss. He can bring back a doggie bag for his canine companion.

Papyrus gives the dog a few scratches between its ears before he leaves his room and heads for the hotel’s restaurant, not feeling brave or strong enough to leave the hotel for the moment.

He gets away with ordering off the (filling, but most importantly, cheap) kids menu. The waitress allows it; he must look as wrung out and weary as he feels.

A jazz trio plays some bluesy ambiance for the late night diners, up on a stage near the center of the restaurant. The bassist glances Papyrus’ way, then does a double take, staring at him for an uncomfortably long moment before he looks away. Papyrus glues his gaze to his table, tracing patterns into the tablecloth with his pointer finger. He doesn’t recognize the monster; perhaps he thinks Papyrus is someone else, someone he knows.

When the waitress returns with his meal, Papyrus eats quickly, tasting nothing. He suddenly feels that the high ceilings of the restaurant make the room too big. Too exposed.

Papyrus pays for his meal. They don’t offer dog chow, so he ends up taking a big package of cold cuts back to his room. His dog scarfs several slices down happily, and Papyrus stows the rest of them away in the hotel room’s minifridge. He walks the dog outside the hotel. The animal senses his unwillingness to dawdle, and finishes its business quickly.

His stomach and his pet now tended to, Papyrus gives himself permission to curl up on the plush bed and go to sleep. Tomorrow, he’ll make something of his plans, go the library and all.

In a few days, Grillby will be coming to this very same hotel to reunite with his sister and her family. He hopes things work out between them.

He’s unsure how he should feel about Grillby. Grillby is his closest friend, his _only_ friend, aside from his dog. He doesn’t understand why Grillby gave him up to Sans. He had to think that he was helping Papyrus, somehow. Papyrus doesn’t want to contemplate any alternative explanations.

Exhausted, Papyrus falls into a troubled sleep. Not even his faithful dog, curled against his back, is a successful ward against his nightmares.

~*~

Papyrus wakes early the following morning. After taking care of the dog’s needs, he heads for the local library. It’s different than Snowdin’s—larger, and the technology is more modern. Living closer to the capitol city has its perks, it seems. The library’s also shrouded in a magic barrier which keeps the books protected from the heat.

A kindly librarian guides him to the computers, and helps him put together his first résumé. She even gives him recommendations on stores in the area that she knows are hiring, and he spends the rest of the day researching jobs in the local area, even applying to a few that offer online applications.

The next day, Papyrus wastes no time. He stows a stack of copies of his résumé in his inventory, and walks to the nearest shopping outlet to hand them out. He wishes he had something nicer to wear, but he has to make do with his jeans and sweater (he really needs to invest in some clothes more suitable for the hot climate) and hope his enthusiasm makes up for his state of dress.

He interviews in several stores for positions as a clerk, cashier, front desk staff, and even a line cook for a fast food restaurant. A few managers he meets with take his résumé absently, adding it to a stack of similar papers inches thick and unread. But he does manage to sit down for interviews with others, and schedule more interviews for later in the week. He provides them with the phone number for his hotel room; the managers he completes interviews with promise to get back to him by the end of the week at the latest.

As the hour draws late, Papyrus walks back to the MTT hotel. He’s exhausted. His face is sore from smiling pleasantly all day, and projecting an outgoing façade for so long has left him drained. Still, there’s a flicker of hope building in his soul. His dreams don’t seem so impossible now. He won’t have to go back to Grillby, and beg him to take him back. Papyrus won’t have to rely on…him, either.

Papyrus can’t deny to himself that he wants to go back to Sans. His soul aches at the thought of never seeing him again. Despite everything that’s happened between them, Sans is still his big brother.

He wonders if Sans even misses him. If he’s glad that Papyrus finally got out of his way. But no, that’s unfair of him—Sans had looked so heartbroken and defeated in Grillby’s living room. He had ran on instinct, but with time he’s starting to doubt himself. Maybe it wasn’t as bad as he imagined it, maybe Sans regrets what he did and truly does want to make amends.

Papyrus lets himself back into his hotel room. His dog bounds over to him, chuffing and licking his hands in greeting.

“How did you make out today, canine?”

The dog yips in response.

“Shall we go for a walk?”

Two yips, this time.

Papyrus brings the dog outside, where it scampers around for a few minutes before it finds an appropriate rock.

Once they enter the hotel, Papyrus looks around, nervously. Today’s the day Grillby is coming up to visit his family. Running into him in the lobby would be…awkward, to put it lightly.

He’s halfway across the foyer when he spots a flash of blue. He stops still. Is that a hoodie?

Papyrus scoops up his dog and all but runs back to his room. He fumbles with his keycard, dropping it. His shaking hands take several critical seconds to pick the piece of plastic back up again. He unlocks the door and slams it behind him. He locks the door, and slides the deadbolt across.

His soul hammers in his ears. Papyrus slides down against the door, until he’s on the carpet. His dog responds to his distress, squirming in his arms, whining. He forces himself to pet the dog, to reassure it, as he attempts to master his breathing.

Stupid. It has to be nothing. There’s no way it’s who he thinks it is. He can’t possibly know where Papyrus is.

There’s a heavy knock at his door. Papyrus’ spine stiffens. He sets the dog down on the bed and picks himself up, slowly, so slowly the knock is followed by another.

Papyrus peers through the fisheye lens of the peephole.

Sans is looking right at him.

Papyrus yelps, staggering back, only to bump into something behind him. Sans used his magic to warp inside Papyrus’ room.

“You’ve been a real pain in the ass, Pap. Made me run around the whole underground lookin’ for ya.”

They stare at each other for a beat, Papyrus, frozen, Sans, waiting.

Papyrus lunges for the room phone. He takes one step before Sans’ magic slams into him, drives him roughly to the floor.

The dog howls, launching itself at Sans with its small fangs bared.

Sans flicks his hand. A bone construct lodges through the dog’s throat, pinning it atop the bedspread. The dog lets out one last gurgling whine, and then it falls silent.

A low, keening wail rips free from Papyrus. His _dog_. His one true companion in this horrible world, who loved him unconditionally despite how broken he is. Is _gone_.

Sans pulls on his magic, dragging Papyrus as one would a marionette on top of the bed. He releases his magic, then, but Papyrus is too afraid to move.

Sans shakes his head. There’s no blustering anger, just cool, measured rage.

“Oh, Papyrus. Where do I even begin?”

Sans climbs onto the bed, on top of Papyrus. A sharpened femur materializes in his hand. Papyrus flinches, expecting to be struck and scarred. But Sans instead slips the bone between Papyrus’ neck and the collar of his sweater and cuts the piece of clothing off of him.

“You should never run from me. I’ll always find you. You’re not as clever as you think.”

Sans moves further downwards. He unzips Papyrus’ pants, and slides them and his underwear down off his hips.

“Take Grillbz, for instance. You think he _really_ cares about you. I’ve known him longer—he’s my friend. When you ran off, you know what he did? He immediately told me how you stole one of the hotel keycards from him.”

“I didn’t steal it, he gave it to me.” Papyrus mumbles feebly.

“His family owns this hotel. It was cake for him to find out where you transferred the room reservation to.”

“Grillby would never do that.”

Sans chuckles lowly. “It hasn’t sunk in yet, has it? I already told you the truth about him before. He was nice to you—” Papyrus’ breath hitches as Sans traces circles on his pelvis. “—because he thought you were going to put out for him.”

“No,” Papyrus moans. His legs slide on the bed. Slipping easily on the dog’s blood, so warm and wet as it pours out over the bedspread.

“He asked you out, didn’t he? He played the polite gentleman.”

He…he _had_ asked Papyrus out. That’s true, but it’s not what Sans is making it sound like…

Sans reaches inside Papyrus’ ribcage, and grabs his soul. His fingers clench, biting into his pliable core.

“You imposed yourself on him. Spent his money on food for yourself and that mutt. Of course he was pissed as hell when you just ran off. Of course he told me exactly where you ran off to.”

“No,” Papyrus rasps. “No.”

Sans grips his soul tighter, broadcasting _need need need_. It makes Papyrus’ hips cant upwards, to brush against the outline of the cock in Sans’ shorts.

“No? Then how am I here now, Papyrus? The underground isn’t that small a place.”

“He…I…” Sans is wrong, he knows it, but. He can’t think of another explanation that Sans won’t laugh off.

As soon as he saw Sans, he was hoping he’d be saved. That Grillby would somehow put it all together and figure out what was wrong, would rush into the room with flaming fists and pry them apart. But his legs are wet with his dog’s blood, and Papyrus knows no one is ever going to come to save him.

Sans returns Papyrus’ soul, and as it snaps back into its rightful place, the sensations he feels are multiplied. Sans strokes the folds of Papyrus’ entrance with a strangely gentle hand. He eases his shorts down so he can push himself inside Papyrus, and when he does, he’s so slow and gentle and loving. He makes love the way Papyrus imagined Grillby would.

Sans presses kisses to Papyrus’ neck, his jaw, working upwards to a languid kiss with Papyrus’ mouth. Sans builds his pace, pushing Papyrus to the edge of climax, then slowing again to draw it out, to savor it.

“What did I do wrong?” Papyrus sobs, his chest heaving. Why has Sans done this to him, why does he make his body _like_ this sick act.

“God,” Sans groans, eyes closing shut in ecstasy. “I fucking hate you, you know that?”

He opens his eyes again, and cups Papyrus’ cheeks between both his hands. His thumbs brush at Papyrus’ tears.

“Even now. Even like this, yer the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.” Sans shifts their positions, to drive himself harder inside Papyrus. “Why’d you make me feel like this? Why’d you make me into this? Papyrus,” Sans gasps. “I love you _so much_.”

With that declaration, he buries himself to the hilt inside Papyrus, coming with a deep groan. He pants, breath blowing hot on Papyrus’ face. Once the glow fades, he rolls off of Papyrus. They disconnect with a slick, wet sound.

Sans’ fingers are quick to find their way to Papyrus’ pussy, two thick fingers pushing inside as another strokes the sensitive nub above his hole.

“I have an idea,” Sans says, as his fingers work Papyrus closer to a climax he doesn’t want. “There’s a place I know of. A friend showed me how to get there. A place where no one here will know where we are, and where no one there knows us. And I’ll be better than before. I already am. Hasn’t this been nice?”

Sans punctuates his question with a pinch down below. Papyrus shudders as a weak orgasm is torn from him.

Sans strokes Papyrus’ cheek with his unsoiled hand.

“A fresh start. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

Dull-eyed, Papyrus nods.

~*~

“Hey, human.”

Kris asks his name. They haven’t seen this monster around town before.

“Name’s Sans. Sans the skeleton.” He points to the house next door to the closed-down storefront they’re standing near. “I just moved here today with my boyfriend, Papyrus. Why don’t you stop by and say hello to him tomorrow?”

Kris nods. They look over at the house. Another skeleton stands at the window, watching them. He’s taller than Sans, but more brittle-looking, swamped in a blue jacket. He looks…lost. Sad. Someone Kris would want to protect.

Papyrus sees them staring, and pulls down the blinds.


End file.
